Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

So this was bad. Like, really bad. Like, ‘put him out of aunt petunia’s house’ bad.

Then again, that wouldn’t be that bad. His relatives were pricks, all considering.

It would suck, though, to not to have a place to sleep anymore.

Harry stared at the piece of paper contemplatively. Maybe he just wouldn’t tell them? He immediately shook his head at the thought, eyes flicking over to his cousin Dudley, who sat across the room with his mates, roughhousing and laughing loudly and stupidly.

Dudley’s letter was opened, and crumpled uncaringly in his hand. He looked unbothered at the results of his tests, so Harry figured that he must have gotten something good. Well, not ‘good’ but something that his parents would approve of. Like Alpha, or caregiver. Or something that they vocally advocated, like a beta. Nothing like Harry.

If Harry tried to hide it from them, Dudley would immediately take joy in telling his parents. Plus, Harry reflected glumly, there was also the fact that Classified people had to wear bands. An unfortunate system that Harry despised.

Feeling a rush of agitation, he turned back to his paper scowling. His test results glared back at him, looking all too innocent on the black paper, when in fact Harry knew that they were going to be the label that ruined his life. Even more than it already was, that is.

“Bollocks.” he mumbles to himself dejectedly. “I hear that mate.” a voice sighs from to his right.

He looks over. A brown haired, gray eyed boy sits in the creaky blue seat, the one that Harry avoided because he knew that it would make him even more agitated on a day like this.

The boy had severe bags under his eyes, and looked so tired Harry was afraid that he would tilt over every second that they sat there. He was holding his papers out flat, turned to the result page in a way that anyone could see them if they wanted to.

Harry’s eyes did that thing where when you’re curious about something your eyes will automatically go to it, no matter how hard you try.

He stiffened at what he read, looking back at the boy in surprise. The boy remained unflinching. “Problem?” he said after a moment of Harry just staring. Harry shook his head quickly. “Er, No, sorry, I just-”

“Have a problem with littles?” the boy finished for him, and Harry blanched, quickly shaking his head.

He hadn’t been expecting him to say it out loud.

“No, jeez, I-” he stumbled, stuttering under the brunette's increasingly frowning gaze.

He continued sputtering like that for a while, until in an impressive show of vulnerability- and desperation-he shoved his papers at him.

The boy took them surprisingly readily, shock only showing up on his face after they’d been handed to him. He scanned the papers, frown slowly giving away to a smile as he read. When he finishes, he gives it back with a bright eyed smile.

Then he says, in the most deadpan voice Harry had ever heard, “I’m older than you.”

Before Harry could even decipher what that meant, a woman in green trousers and a floral decorated shirt entered. “Richard?” she calls to the room. immediately, the boy's smile falls.
He stands up, reaching around the blue chair to pick up a brown knapsack.

He packs the papers into his pack, swinging it around so that it was on his back, then stops to stare at Harry. He looks at him for a minute, expression unchanging, before he reaches in his pocket and offers him a loli.

Harry takes it, staring at him in bewilderment.

“Good luck out there mate.” he tells Harry solemnly, saluting. Then he leaves with the woman. Harry examines the loli. It’s a golden one, with swirls of red in it. It’s encased in a clear wrapper, but the tied ends are rainbow colored. He sticks it into his pockets.

Harry’s and Dudley's names are called precisely thirty minutes later. Harry wastes zero time in exiting the building, glad that he didn’t bring a knapsack with him.

He folds the papers, then shoves them in his shirt, zipping Dudley's tent-like windbreaker around him. He exits the building, relishing in the humid contrast of the late outside compared to frigid temperatures of the testing building.

He spots uncle Vernon’s car parked right outside of the building, pouring out exhaust fumes from the back. He hurries to get in, remembering a time where he failed to do such and had been berated for an hour straight.

Ironically, Dudley takes almost fifteen minutes to get into the car, most likely due to him chatting it up with his mates. Harry rolls his eyes mentally at the logic of it.

Uncle Vernon doesn’t take long enough to get them home. The tension in the car is unbearable, but it would be better than telling the Dursleys about the test.

Dread fills his heart at the very thought. They roll into the driveway far sooner than Harry would have liked and Harry hurries to exit the car and enter the house. He rushes in and up towards his room, the one that the Dursleys gave him before his first year at hogwarts, thanking merlin that the Dursleys were stupid enough to leave the door unlocked whenever they thought that they weren’t going to be out for a while.

He enters and slams the door behind him, locking it. Then he just stands there, huffing slightly from the run and listening intently for any signs that Vernon was coming after him.

There were only the sounds of low murmuring downstairs though, then joyous laughing and clapping.

He waited a few more minutes, then slowly backed away from the door and sat down on the creaky twin bed.

Hedwig chirps from inside her cage, almost as if in question. He gives a weak grin, nodding slightly. “Yeah, I’m alright Hedwig. Just- tired. We had that test today.” She chirps, and Harry grins slightly. 

After a moment of thought, he takes the letter out, unfolding the packet of papers and flipping to the test result page. Then he takes the time to look at it, truly look at it, no longer under the fear that someone was going to see him, and see his papers.

Congratulations! You are a

Little
Sub class: Infant

Test date: 6/30/93
Test examiner(s): Sarah Henderson, Richard Leeway, Dr. Crobyn-Young & Allison Hughes
Certifications listed on pg. 38
Examinees Info:
Name: Harry Potter

Age: 12

DOB: July 31st, 1980

Education level: Year 8

Parents/guardian(s): Vernon Dursley, Petunia Dursley Nee evans

Congratulations! You have been tested and certified as a little under the Classification Administration of Britain! You are now automatically registered as a little in the government pages. This means you will be asked to have a registered Caregiver in a year's time. Your registered Caregiver can change three times before you’re not allowed to anymore. Since you are a minor, your current Guardian’s are registered as your caregivers until you change it. This does not count as one of your three. Since you are an INFANT, you are recognized under the little Protection service act. One of these rules is that you must take certified little transportation, and, if not under supervision by someone who isn’t classified as a little, must only travel during the day. Animals are not considered as supervision.

(possible)Age range: 11 months to 18 months

Is this little able to be on His/her own out of headspace?
Yes
Is this little able to be on His/Her own in headspace?
No.

Is this little able to work under the administration of protective services for submissives?
Yes.
Required time in headspace: at least four times a week minimum.

Is little recommended to be in diapers, pull-ups, or night wear?
Yes.

Is this Little recommended to have Little Grade Formula™?:
Yes, highly.

Able to live alone?:
Yes, in community housing

As a little in the Infant subclass, there are a certain amount of foods that are suggested that you avoid. Such food are as follows:

Harry stops reading there.

He’s had enough. At least for now.

He feels his stomach drop when he realizes that this is only the test result page. There are more rules. A lot more.

He folds the papers back up, shoves them haphazardly into his desk drawers not caring about the mess he’s made. Then he sits down in his desk chair and shoves his head into his hands.

The Dursley’s as his caregivers?

The very thought of it was ridiculous, as the Dursleys hated him.

They’d been very vocal about it during his childhood, making their distaste for him known every second of the waking hours.

And Harry was pretty sure that they had a strong dislike of littles. They’d made their opinion known about omega’s and pets in anyways.

Littles were like those. At least he’d thought so.

He’d have to just not tell them.

It’s not like they’d mind anyways, he reassured himself. They don't care about you, after all.

Absent-mindedly, he stuck his thumb into his mouth, biting at the nail like he always did when he was nervous. Then, once he realized what he’d been doing, he quickly took it out.

The Dursleys, although he thought them stupid at times, could be occasionally clever. Especially Aunt Petunia, who watched him more than anyone else in the house.

She ties with Snape on that, Harry thinks bemusedly, tapping at his desk with a quill he’d managed to sneak into his room. They both watch me far too much for their own good. Perhaps they should make a meeting about that. Like an AA meeting for weird adults who watch kids when they shouldn’t be.

Harry giggles delightedly to himself about this- perhaps a bit hysterically- so caught up in his own musings, that when Petunia raps sharply on the door, he barely notices.

His heart jumps into his throat.

Thankfully, she only came to tell him to start making dinner. He heads down semi reluctantly, somewhat glad to have a distraction. Uncle Vernon is surprisingly in the kitchen when he arrives.

Dudley is absent though, likely upstairs playing some obscure video game. Vernon huffs at the sight of him, turning a page on his paper loudly. Harry ignores him, pulling out the necessary ingredients for a meatloaf dinner.

It doesn’t take long to make, taking about an hour at most. He finishes it with no hindrance, taking a seat once down and leaving the food to sit.

Petunia didn’t actually trust him to serve dinner. She thought he’d get some of his ‘freakishness’ off on it. Especially after last year with the whole Dobby situation.

Petunia comes down a while later, dishing out the meatloaf by the plateful.

She hands him the smallest portion, with the driest piece, and nearly no potatoes.

Harry says nothing.

Dudley lumbers down the steps like the big oaf that he is fifteen minutes later, the steps protesting under his weight.

He comes into the kitchen with a beaming face, trotting over to the table and taking a seat nearest to his father, who pats him on the shoulder heartily. Harry inwardly rolls his eyes.

Aunt Petunia takes a seat at the table last, daintily sitting at her seat. Harry focuses on his meal, tucking into the tiny piece of meat loaf slowly.

He wouldn’t be able to go back upstairs until after they were finished. Why rush?

“So,” Uncle Vernon starts, clearing his throat, “We’ll have to be gettin some things for Dudley and his room, with the new classification. It’s not fit for a man who’s classified.” Ah. That’s why.

Dudley beams at the term “man”, sitting straighter at his chair.

The image is ruined when he shoves a piece of meatloaf into his mouth. Harry, disgusted, turns back to his food.

“Oh of course! We wouldn’t want our dear Dudley to be uncomfortable, would we?” Aunt Petunia coos, reaching over to pinch Dudley’s cheek. “Muuum.” Dudley whines, pulling away. Uncle Vernon chuckles. Harry’s mouth twists into a sneer sans his own volition. He hurries to hide it in his food.

“No, we wouldn’t.” Uncle Vernon agrees, after chewing his meatloaf more. “Which is why I think we should get him one of those games. You know, the ones they make for caregivers?”

Harry chokes at this, sputtering and coughing into his dinner, turning away with his mouth covered.

He regains sense of himself and sits up wide eyed to stare at Dudley who’s scowling at him. “What is it freak?” the boy sneers, “you got a problem with me being a caregiver?” Yes, Harry thinks inwardly. Outwardly, he shakes his head, hunching in his seat. “Just surprised is all.” he mumbles, taking a bite of what’s left of his dinner.

At this his aunt scoffs, turning up her nose at him. “You shouldn’t be. Caregivers are a perfectly normal classification. Nothing like Alphas or Omegas. Or those darn Pets and Masters.” Harry feels his stomach drop.

He hates when she talks like this.

Uncle Vernon nods his head in vicious agreement. “Precisely, dear. No good self respecting man and woman would be any of those freakish things.” He says, like it's a choice.

Then he whips his head towards Harry like he’d just had a thought. “What about you, boy. What did you get on the test, huh?” The other two Dursley members immediately turn their heads towards Harry as if just realizing that they didn’t know his class. Even though Harry had taken the test with Dudley. Typical. “

"Knowing him it’s probably something freakish. What are you, an Omega? An Alpha? A Pet?” Dudley sneers, face looking impressively like a walrus having its face squeezed.

Harry keeps his mouth shut, taking another bite of meatloaf. “Well? Answer him boy!” Uncle Vernon snarled, slamming down on the table with a meaty fist. Harry said nothing, scooping up mashed potatoes and mixing them with his meatloaf. Vernon makes to get up and Petunia made a noise of distress. “Oh Vernon, don’t worry, it’s not like the freak will be able to hide anymore when the bands get here. We’ll find out then.” At this revelation, Uncle Vernon sat back down, appeased.

Harry’s hands shake slightly. He’d forgotten about the bands. His eyes shifted over to where both his uncle and his aunts rested. They were both gray, an indicator of being neutral. Or, as some people called them, bland. His cousins would be a royal purple when it came. And his own would be some sort of white and blue design.

A sign of his class and subclass.
Basic classification coloring was a required education. His relatives would know what he was immediately. He wilts in his chair.

Dinner passed fairly quickly after that.

Harry waits until they all had gone to the living room for family time before he began clearing the plates. He did the dishes as fast as he could, scraping, rinsing, and putting all dishes in the dishwasher.

When his chores were done, he went up the stairs, making sure his gait was normal so they wouldn’t be suspicious.

When he gets to his room he locks it, jumps into his bed, and breathes. In and out. In and out.

Everything was going to be okay.

Oh who was he kidding.

He was fucked, wasn't he?

Chapter Text

Bands are distributed within a week of classification tests. They’re sent to each house in the mail on different days of two weeks, so the mail could either come between Monday through Saturdays one week after or two weeks after . Harry checks the mail everyday, waking up before the sun and meeting the mailman outside each day. After wednesday, the mailman begins to shake his head at him, and each time Harry lets out a mental sigh of relief.

The packages that contain the bands are obvious, being a midnight purple box with fancy wrapping on the outside; like a present. Harry privately believes that it’s for those who get the more ‘freakish’ classifications. A present saying, ‘sorry we messed up your life! Here’s a present.’ It doesn’t really make sense though, since the present is a calling card of your class. Ironic, some would call it. Idiotic, Harry called it.

It’s not until next week that the bands come. Harry wakes up later than usual. He flails out of bed, hurrying to put the ratty socks from Dudley on, and stumbles down stairs. He freezes on the last step when he hears voices in the kitchen. “This one is Dudley’s, dear, and this one’s the boys.” Vernon says. “Do you think we should open it?” Petunia asks, sounding nervous and wary. “No,” Vernon replies, sounding firm, “We make him open it in here. In front of us, so he can’t hide it. I won't tolerate any more freakishness than he already is, Petunia. I won’t having one of those- those sex freaks in my house. If he is one, I’m letting him up, Nia. I swear. No talk from those wizards are going to change it.” There’s silence and a bit of rustling, like his Aunt and uncle are embracing. Then there’s a quiet, barely intelligible, “okay.” and Harry feels his body go cold. They’re going to kick him out. Could they do that? Harry didn’t want to find out. He eyed the door, wondering how long it would take him to quietly walk upstairs, get all of his stuff, break his school things out of the cupboard, and exit the house. He was about to attempt to do all of these things, when heavy footsteps from behind him made his heart drop.

“Move.” his cousin ordered gruffly, shoving him roughly into the wall as he passed. There was quiet in the kitchen as he entered, then a bit of murmuring. “Come on in here, Boy, we know you’re out there.” his uncle’s rumbling voice called. Harry stalled, wondering if he could make a break for it and come back for his stuff later. “Now!” his uncle ordered, sounding dangerously angry, and Harry hurried into the kitchen before he could process what he was doing.

His Uncle sat in his dining chair, looking concerningly like a red walrus. His aunt stood over him, a skinny hand on his shoulder, and Dudley sat in his own dining chair, purple box in front of him already. Harry stood in the entrance, watching the faces of his relatives. They held a smugness on them that had him bristling. They acted as if they already won. “Here.” Petunia held out his box to him. It looked no different than Dudley’s box, being a deep purple, and shiny. “Dudley, you open yours first dearest. I don’t want anything to ruin this moment.” Petunia told his cousin sweetly. She means she doesn’t want me to ruin it, Harry thought wryly, gripping the box that held the indication of his future. Dudley eagerly tears into his box, ripping at the beautiful purple wrapping and tearing the lid of the box open. He pulls out a slip of paper and blatantly ignores it, tossing it aside for his mother to read. Then he pulls out what everyone had been waiting for for two weeks.

Like Harry had thought, the band was a brilliant royal purple, made of metal and very thin. Uncle Vernon reached over to put the band on, unclasping it and wrapping around Dudley’s meaty wrist. It fit perfectly, having been custom made as all the bands were. Aunt Petunia smiled brightly at the sight, giving her hands a little clap. They admired Dudley’s band. Harry turned away, unable to stand the sight of the way that they were looking at him. “Alright boy,” Vernon’s voice came gruffly, and Harry turned back. They were all staring at him now, not even bothering to hide the look of disgust on their faces. “Your turn.” Dudley sneers at him. Harry sits down in a chair slowly, setting the box on the table. He begins to unwrap the box as slowly as he can, tearing the wrapping from the box little by little. After a minute, Vernon huffs angrily, arms resuming their folded position. “Hurry it up boy,” he shouts, “we’re not waiting all day!” Harry unwraps the box a little more quickly, heart pounding in his throat. The wrapping is very pretty, Harry notes, and he takes care to not rip it. The Dursleys seem agitated by this, clearly growing more restless by the moment. Finally, the wrapping is off and Harry pulls out a small white box, the same as his cousins. It’s a cube in all senses. Harry pulls the lid off, and looks inside. There’s a letter, same as his cousins. Harry opens it, intent on taking as long as he can to prolong the wrath of his family. It’s simply an address to the reader, telling them that they’re now an official citizen and to keep their band safe at all times. It also offers congratulations, which Harry scoffs at.

The band is below it. Harry lifts it out slowly, careful to keep it hidden from his relatives. The band is white like he’d thought, with baby blue flecks sprinkled through it. There’s black lettering in the middle of it, announcing his classification clearly for all to see.

Classification: Little
Subclass: Infant

He only has a chance to look at it for a minute before it’s snatched out of his hands by his aunt. She looks at it for a moment in silence, before wordlessly handing it to his uncle, who frowns deeply. His uncle examines it for a minute, lifting it up to the light and turning it to see all angles. He stares for a while at the words, then slowly sets the band down. There’s silence for a long time, spent with them all just staring at each other. Then Dudley lunges for Harry’s band, snatching it up and peering at it with a close eye. He makes a choked noise after a moment, setting down the band, and staring at Harry with a look of incredulity . “He’s a baby? Potter’s a baby?” Dudley asks incredulously, looking back and forth between his parents as if they’ll reveal that it’s just some joke. That Harry’s not actually classified as a ‘baby’ and he’s actually something ‘freakish’. That’s what they all had been expecting, after all. Freakish Harry the wizard, who goes to school for freaks like him. Harry was also in shock. He’d expected them to kick him out as soon as they saw the word ‘little’. His aunt and uncle currently looked as if they were at a loss for words, looking back and forth from Harry to the band. Then, without any words, they left the kitchen, not even bothering to hand Harry his band back. Dudley stayed, staring at Harry strangely. Then he followed his parents. Harry rounded the table after they had left, picking up his band and putting it on. It fits perfectly, not being too tight or too small. He hates it.

Later that night, when Harry is leaving the bathroom, he hears his uncle’s frantic and agitated hushed whispering. His aunt replies in an equally frantic manner, voice raising despite her obviously trying to be hushed. He pauses in the hallway for a second, trying to make out what they’re saying. Their voices are too hushed though, and Harry is too tired to truly try and find out what they’re saying. He goes back to his room, shutting the door and going to sleep.

The next day Harry goes downstairs to find his aunt cooking breakfast already. He stands in the doorway of the kitchen, not really sure what to do next. He’s been cooking mostly every meal for the Dursleys since he was seven, having been taught because Petunia hadn’t felt like cooking that day. Seeing Petunia at the stove was jarring. He sat at the table uncertainly, watching his aunt the entire time. “What are you looking at boy,” his uncle hmphed as he came in, grumbling the whole way as he sat down. The chair creaked under his weight as he scooted into the table. “Nothing.” Harry replied quickly, turning away from aunt Petunia. He hesitated before he looked at his uncle again. “It’s just, I’m usually the one who cooks breakfast.” His uncle makes a mocking ‘hmph’ noise, chuckling as if he’d said something funny. “Hah! As if we’d let a little cook our food. It’s too dangerous for you boy. The only type of cooking you should be doing is making mud pies.” his aunt guffaws at that from behind him, placing food in front of Vernon and the spot that Dudley sat at. For Harry, she set down a bowl of porridge with no fruit or anything.

Harry stared at it, then at the plates of eggs, bacon, and toast that everyone else sported. He risked a glance at his aunt, who scowled at him. “It’s not right for babies to have adult food. You get porridge for breakfast and that’s all. Best be grateful for it, boy.” Petunia sniffed. she looked at him until he hesitantly took a bite, then turned to her son, who had just lumbered down the steps with messy hair. The porridge tasted awfully bland. Harry gagged. Nevertheless, he choked it down, knowing well enough not to skip meals. Breakfast was a silent affair after that, uneventful until after Harry had stepped away from the table to gather dishes. Petunia stopped him, mouth twisted into a sneer, telling him that she didn’t want him to break any of her plates, even though Harry had washed the dishes countless times before.

She stood up to do the dishes herself, so Harry went upstairs, nerves brimming with uncertainty. Dudley shoved him against the wall as he passed, so at least that was somewhat normal. Harry rubbed where he’d hit his arm, feeling tears coming to his eyes. Dismayed, he blinked them away, mind flashing back to those puberty lessons every primary schooler had had to suffer through. Body changes that took place over time for each classification.
“Littles become more sensitive over time,” his primary school teacher had stated, “Their bodies don’t grow over five feet, and they start producing a hormone that attracts all types of adults-no matter the species. Little puberty is unlike other puberty, considering that their hormones don’t attract mates. They attract caregivers and trigger that sense we all have in our brains that tell us to care for our young. Especially classified caregivers, who feel their effect much more than anyone else does. We’ll approach that topic next week though, when we talk about caregivers.” Harry had remembered feeling amazed during that lesson, the thought of littles attracting people to care for them bewildering him. Then again, the thought of anyone taking care of him seemed insane.

Harry had always taken care of himself, from when he was seven and peeing himself every night, to when he was twelve and facing down Riddle. He’d always taken care of himself. I don’t need a caregiver, he thought to himself, closing his door behind him and going over to scratch Hedwig on her neck, I can take care of myself.

The weeks pass fast, something that Harry is happy about. Harry checks himself every so often, sometimes standing in the middle of his room and trying to feel if he feels any different. He doesn’t really though, not unless you count the fact that he cries more often. Like when Aunt Petunia ‘accidently’ dropped his porridge, and his eyes filled with tears immediately. He’d blinked them away immediately, schooling his features when he’d seen Aunt Petunia looking at him strangely. Or when Vernon slapped him on his head because he hadn’t moved fast enough. He’d had to cover his mouth to stifle his cries. He was also short, but then again he’d always been. Probably due to the malnutrition that he suffered because the Dursleys refused to feed him right. Other than that, there’d been no changes.

To his body. There’d been gradual changes in the Dursley household's way to treat him. Petunia fed him more bland things now, cutting things up on his plate when they were having dinner and lunch. She also fed him smaller portions, but much more often. He actually got three meals a day instead of just one. Dudley didn’t shove or hurt him anymore, instead watching him from afar and looking at him strangely. Vernon didn’t curse around him, biting his lips when he was about to curse. And then there were the nappies Aunt Petunia had gotten for him.

They’d been in the middle of the table when he’d gotten downstairs. It was an entire box of them, yellow and blue in color, and had the words ‘Little helpers’ on it. It was obvious that they were for littles, because a teen boy was on the cover, smiling brightly at the person viewing the box while wearing one. Harry paused in the door, for a whole twelve minutes looking at them in shock. Petunia turned around and saw him staring there. She scowled, waving her spatula at him. “Stop gawking boy. Sit down!” Harry sat, still staring at the nappies. Petunia saw what he was staring at and sniffed, turning her nose up. “Those are for you, boy. They’re from our neighbors and I expect you to wear them. Elizabeth from down the street made a great point about you peeing on the furniture. She told me that littles pee everywhere.” she wagged her finger at Harry, narrowing her eyes. “If you even think about peeing on my couch, I’ll spank you with a wooden spoon, do you hear me?” She waited until Harry gave frantic nods before she went back to setting plates of food down for Dudley and Vernon. She removed the nappies from the table before they ate, and to Harry’s dismay, set them in plain view. Vernon and Dudley made no comment about them, but Harry did see Dudley looking from the box back at Harry. He ignored him, digging into his porridge, which would be even worse if it was cold. He hid the box in his closet when breakfast was over, intent on not using any of them.

The way people outside the Dursley’s household treated him was different as well. The news of Harry’s classification traveled through the neighborhood quickly, especially with his band on, taking it by storm. Harry was no longer feared by the neighbors, now able to walk through without being whispered about or receiving angry looks. People in the neighborhood would talk to him. The old lady who lived in number 7 Privet drive, would wave to him every time he passed, offering him sweets and warm milk & cookies. People would greet him if they saw him in the yard weeding under the hot sun, or if they saw him washing the car. Harry would wave back each time, surprised that they even noticed him. Sometimes, people hounded him though, invading his personal space and touching his cheeks and hair and body without his permission. When Harry went to the park, they often came up to ask where his guardian was. It made him want to go farther than his neighborhood when going out. But internally, he knew that it wouldn’t change anything. The bands were required to be visible, and anyone who saw a person’s wrists would immediately know. Like Piers, who'd seen the band on when Dudley'd brought him over to play video games.

Piers was nearly unbearable, having been classified as a caregiver like Dudley. Whenever Harry was at the house or in the park, Piers would act as if Harry was his little. Telling Harry not to do something, using his ‘Daddy voice’ on him, and offering to help feed him or change him. Dudley did nothing to stop it, staying silent and only looking at Harry with that same stupid staring. Piers had come over on the last day of July to hang out with Dudley and had come to bother Harry with that same authoritative voice that he always used. Harry had snapped, pausing his gardening to glare at Piers and bite back that he wasn’t his caregiver. Piers had been struck speechless before storming out, and Dudley hadn’t said a word. He’d been struck with a spoon for being rude, though, and had cried silently in his room afterwards.

The only one who didn’t treat him differently was Aunt Marge, who arrived on the sixth, bringing Ripper with her. She brought with her a storm, same as she always did and always would, filling the house with her annoying voice and taking up as much space on the couch that she could. She treated him like a servant even more than the Dursleys, not even letting him stop until it was dark out. Then, when he was panting and wheezing from running around doing chores all day, she degraded him. Talking about his parents, about his clothes, and the lightning like scar that branches across his forehead with that upturn tilt of her face. Like she was better than him. She forces him to stay as she talks down to him. His little status is simply something else to talk about.

Harry is unfortunately there when she arrives. Standing inside the door, ready to take their coats. Marge looks him up and down when she steps inside, an ugly sneer on her face. Her mouth thins into a disapproving line when she spots his band. Harry’s heart sinks. From that point on, she sends snide little comments his way. When she’s passing by, when he’s weeding the yard, or washing the car She doesn’t say anything too bad until dinner though, when she’s had an amount of alcohol that really can’t be healthy. He sits for dinner, his chair now being an old wooden one that tilted awkwardly to the left; Marge had taken his usual chair. They’re midway through dinner when she begins. Harry is staring with a slightly sour face at his small bowl of thin looking mashed potatoes, forgetting that the old crone is looking at him. “I told you that boy isn’t grateful for what you give him Vernon,” she announces loudly to her brother while staring directly at Harry. “I told you years ago you should have dropped him off. That’s what I would have done, you see. Drove him down to the nearest orphanage and paid them to take him.” Harry looks down, intent on ignoring her. Vernon makes a flustered, “hmm- Yes” noise, agreeing with her but not actually saying the words. The Dursleys had threatened Harry with taking him to the orphanage often, even once going so far to take the long route home to drive by. They’d never actually done it though, nor had they let him step foot in its vicinity. Harry quickly glances at Aunt Petunia, noticing that her smile is obviously forced. He takes a bite of his food.

“So Marge,” Petunia interjects, obviously trying to change the subject. “How is dog breeding going?” Marge snorts piggishly at this, clumsily bringing her cup of brandy to her lips. Some spills on the floor and Ripper trots over to lick at it. Harry wonders if it’s healthy for dogs to drink alcohol. “It’s going awful, Petunia dear, you wouldn’t even believe it. I have this terrible dog- not even one of mine, I picked it up at some pound in brighton-and she makes a ruckus all day I tell you! Constantly getting into things, eating the other dogs' food, all sorts of things. She’s been escaping into town while I'm asleep, hooking up with some mutt in the evenings.” Aunt Marge pauses to take another sip of brandy, slamming it down on the table when she’s finished. The table shakes and Harry’s bowl rattles. Dudley holds onto his food dramatically. “Now the damn bitch is pregnant! I have to get rid of the little blighters when they’re born of course. Can’t make no good coin off of ‘em.” she shoves food into her mouth, getting sauce on her face. It’s an improvement, honestly. “Everyone knows the bitch. It’s hard not to, with her running around all day.No one will buy. I’ve been telling you for years Petunia, if there’s something wrong with the bitch, there will be something wrong with the pup.” She looks directly at Harry while she’s saying it, and Harry feels himself bristling. He makes to stand up at the table, but his aunt shoots him a sharp look. He settles back down, scowling into his halfway empty bowl. His stomach makes a small noise.

Everything is starting to feel too much. Marge is still talking loudly, his band is rubbing against his arm, and Dudley keeps staring at him. Aunt Petunia’s eyes keep flickering back to him while she’s nodding and smiling at everything Marge is saying. Vernon looks awkward in his chair, occasionally humming. And Ripper keeps lapping at the spilt brandy. Distress fills Harry’s mind. He shakily takes another bite of his mashed potatoes, and lets out a sigh through his nose. It’s alright. It’s okay. It’s alright. A fly, of all things, is the thing to set him off. It comes from nowhere, landing immediately on his food when his eyes open. Something in Harry snaps.

Aunt Marge pauses in her rant, lowering her brandy and getting a strange look on her face. The rest of the family seems to pause with her, eyeing her with varying levels of concern. “Marge?” Uncle Vernon says after a minute and his voice seems to be a start button. Marge perks up, her eyes going cross eyed. She begins to act mad, clucking like a hen and standing up with a quickness from the table, sending the chair flying across the room. Petunia and Vernon immediately stand in alarm, eyes wide with fear and concern as a comb of a chicken sprouts on her head and that dangly thing sprouts from her beak-when did she get a beak? “Marge, dear, oh Vernon-” Aunt Petunia cries, in distress, waving her arms frantically. Sensing danger nearby, Harry quickly stands from the table, knocking his own rickety chair to the floor.

He rushes out of the room, hurrying up the stairs to get the stuff under the floor, hedwig, hesitating for a moment before he grabs the nappies, then back down the stairs to break open the lock on his old cupboard. He grabs his trunk and is about to make his way out of the door when Vernon blocks his way, purple in the face and fists balled. Harry bites back a whine of distress, instead stepping forward and glaring at Vernon. “Move.” He demands, narrowing his eyes at the man. Vernon chuckles darkly, stepping up so he’s toe to toe with Harry, towering over the boy. Harry ignores the urge to shrink back. “You, boy, are about to get a hiding of your life.” Vernon growls at him. Harry pulls out his wand, ignoring how the hallway fills with a sickly sweet smell that kind of reminds him of applesauce. “Move.” Harry orders again, keeping his voice steady. Vernon backs up in surprise, before narrowing his eyes. “You’re not allowed to use that outside of school.” he says, voice tense, and Harry nearly laughs at the change in tone. “I’m already a criminal, Uncle Vernon. I can do whatever I want now. I’m already gone, you see. Just because I'm a little doesn’t mean I won’t hurt you.” he steps forward, delighting in the way that uncle Vernon scrambles back. Vernon scowls, clearly about to say something else, when Ripper comes rushing in. The dog rushes to stand in front of Harry, shocking both Vernon and him, and bares his teeth at the man. Vernon, backs away further, holding out his arms in an attempt to calm the dog, but it clearly agitates him further because Ripper leaps up onto the man, latching onto his outstretched arm. Vernon cries out, and Harry takes his leave with him distracted.

The night is cool, surprisingly so, especially for a summer. Harry walks down the streets at a brisk pace, occasionally looking behind him to make sure his uncle isn’t following him. When he’s a decent spot away, Harry slows to a stop, sets his trunk down and sits on it. He shoves his face into his hands, shivering as all he has on is a thin oversized sweater that he doesn’t even have an undershirt under. What am I gonna do now? He asks his hands. He brings himself out of his hands, looking up to the sky and taking a moment to admire the stars and their beauty. Then he looks back at his hands, which look so small in comparison. Every part of me, he thinks grimly, is small. How can I ever fight off Voldermort like this?

Before he has a chance to ponder on it more, or even think about losing himself to crippling self doubt, there’s a crack across the street. A sharp one. Like a stick breaking under some extremely heavy weight. Harry stands up immediately, drawing his wand and trying to find out what made the noise. It’s difficult in the dark, the shadows shifting around his eyes everytime he tries to focus on an object. He doesn’t see it until it’s surely too late, a big hounding mutt, as giant as a wolf, stalking towards him with hungry yellow eyes. Harry backed up quickly, cursing his luck. He backs up, falling over backwards onto his bum into the cold, slightly muddy ground. He blinks, and when he opens his eyes the black night has immediately been illuminated in a warm yellow, a purple bus with open doors sitting in front of him.

“Well?” the bus driver calls to him, and Harry stands up, trying in vain to brush mud from his arse. He looks around for the dog, confusion clouding his brain. “Are you gonna come on?” the driver asks impatiently, tapping his foot in quick succession against the bus floor. Harry drags his trunk up the bus stairs. A young man takes his things too quickly for him to protest, storing it above a bed near the front. The bus is covered with them instead of seats. The bus driver taps his wheel a little impatiently, but there’s a smile on his face so Harry can’t really tell if he’s seriously in a hurry. “Eleven sickles, where ya headed?” the elderly man asks, turning from the wheel to Harry. His smile falls slowly when he sees Harry’s band. Harry’s heart sinks. “What are you doing out in the cold! Where in heaven is your caregiver, have you lost them? Stanley! Stanley, get some hot chocolate for the baby, will you? my goodness.” ignoring Harry’s disgruntled muttering about how he wasn’t a baby, the bus driver, taking quite a minute to get up from his seat in the front, hobbled over to one of the beds and reached up. From the compartment, he brought out a fluffy, quilted blanket as long as Harry's old room. He loved magic.

The driver, who Harry decided to coin the name Bob, threw the blanket on the bed with Harry’s trunk, and whipped around to the young man, who was just standing there. “Stanley, the chocolate! Can’t you see how the wee lad is shivering?” Bob said, pointing to a clearly not shivering Harry. Stanley straightened up immediately, whisking away to the back and disappearing. Bob ushered Harry to sit on the bed, urging him to put his feet up and giving him fluffy socks. He threw the quilt over Harry then reached down under the bed and pulled up side bars. “I don’t need those!” Harry exclaimed, even more disgruntled. Bob threw a small thanks over his shoulder to Stanley, who’d returned quicker than Harry’d thought he would, and handed him a sippy cup of hot chocolate. Harry took it, but only because it was red and covered in snitches. The cup was pleasantly warm, and when Harry took a sip, it was the richest hot chocolate He’s ever had. Then again, he’s not had many.

Bob leans in close to Harry then, nearly close enough so that he can see his nostril hairs. And also his name tag, which is clearly not Bob. “Alrighty, hun, now tell me where your caregiver is and we’ll get you there.” He opened his mouth to tell B-Ernie that he didn’t have one, but then thought better of it. He didn’t know how wizarding folk reacted to littles, but Muggles hadn’t reacted well when he told them he didn’t have a caregiver. “er-London! Uh, Diagon Alley! Yeah, my Caregiver’s waiting for me there. I was visiting, you see, so- yeah.” His explanation sucked. By the furrow of Ernie’s eyebrows, he could tell. He didn’t look like he believed him. Ernie said nothing though, patting Harry on the knee, and sharing a look with Stanley. “Right then, we’ll get you there Darling. And uh, we’ll meet your caregiver, okay?” Harry reluctantly nods, and Ernie goes back to the front of the bus. Harry cradles his sippy cup in his lap, over the quilted blanket, and stares out the window. For a moment, he thinks he sees big yellow eyes, staring at him from the darkness. But then, Ernie’s bus moves forward, and they disappear. “Hold on to those rails, darling.” Stanley says from the bed next to him. He’s clearly been told to sit there and watch him by Ernie, as his posture is stiff and he keeps looking at the sippy cup in his hands. “It’s going to be a bumpy ride. “

Chapter Text

Dear god this was a mistake. 

Harry hangs on to the crib railings of the bed for dear life, feeling sick to his stomach as the bus Ernie’s driving whips them back and forth through the streets. Ernie is driving like a madman, twisting through the streets in ways only possible by magic. 

Stanley, who Harry determined needed a raise, rushed through the aisles with amazing agility, fixing the doors of loose cargo holders, and making beds. 

He has the balance of a practiced cat, staying steady on his feet even as they go over a particularly large bump. 

He’d moved from where Ernie had put him after the fifth bump, patting Harry on his head and promising to be back. 

 Harry didn’t think he needed to be watched. He was perfectly capable of looking after himself. He’d been doing it for years. 

Nevertheless, he’d nodded to appease the man, watching him walk away as if in a park even as the bus shook and rattled. 

   With no gangly looking older teenager looking after him, Harry finds himself drawn into his thoughts, which is a dangerous thing when you’re him. 

Harry had never wished to be someone else more than that moment. And he’d wished it upon himself plenty of times.  

The thoughts of what he just did float around in his mind, mocking him. Performing magic on muggles is illegal, his brain hisses in twisted delight, and the image of Aunt Marge bucking wildly and physically turning into a chicken came up, along with the guilt that was actually rather late in Harry’s opinion.

However, he realized he really only felt guilty for breaking the law. Harry didn't really care about turning Dudley's aunt into a chicken. Aunt Marge resembled the thing she raised down to the last bit. Until she turned into a hen that is. 

 That said, Harry mourned, staring out the window of the night bus, there's no telling what the wizarding world would do to him. 

Harry had planned to run off with only his trunk as soon as he got off the knight bus, but he couldn’t exactly do that when two adult wizards were planning on personally escorting him to his “Caregiver”. 

The caregiver that Harry didn’t have. The caregiver that Harry had told them that he had. 

He was screwed. 

The Knight bus comes to an abrupt stop, jerking Harry violently forward with it. He recovers himself, hurriedly looking up with the fear that they were in London and the time had come where he’d have to explain why he was by himself. His heart settled when he noticed it was only a scraggly looking man getting on. Both Stanley and Eddie greet him, offer him hot chocolate which the man wisely declines, and take his bags. The man heads to the back of the bus, staring for a long minute when he sees Harry's scar – to the point where he very nearly curls into himself– then moves on without a word. He tries not to think about the interaction too much

“Oi Ernie! Sirius Black’s escaped prison again.” Stanley announces suddenly from a bed he’d taken a seat at. He had a large newspaper outstretched wide between his hands. His eyes flicked across the page eagerly. Part of the newspaper wilted downwards towards the floor of the knight bus, yet Stanley didn’t seem to notice, engrossed in the one section of his newspaper. Harry could see a small quidditch game going on in the upper right corner. He turns himself partially so he can see it better. Ernie only grunts, eyes focused on the road.

“Sirius Black?” Harry asks, slightly distracted by the game, tilting his head further. “Who’s that?” 

When it was silent for what seemed like years, he looked back up to see that Stan had an expression of pure, comical confusion and a hint of delight.

 “Merlin’s beard, you’ve never heard of Sirius Black? Where have you been living? Under a rock?” Stanley exclaimed, seeming to forget that it was a little he was talking to.

 Harry shrugged. The Dursleys' house was kind of like under a rock if you thought about it. 

“He’s a famous criminal,” Stanley begins semi-eagerly, leaning forward on the edge of the bed, not even flinching when the bus swerves around a particularly close car. "Who apparently was convicted of the murder of thirteen muggles and one wizard back in '81."

 While in the kitchen with Uncle Vernon a few years back, the man had announced loudly to the breakfast table, in a bout of his usual masculine foolishrey, that he would put ten bronze bullets in any man’s gut if he ever came near Petunia or Dudley.

 He very pointedly hadn’t said a thing about Harry of course, but Harry hadn’t really expected him to. Later, when Harry was cleaning up the mess, he’d noticed the big bold words of an article proclaiming that some man had murdered a family of four. 

That had seemed like an incredible amount to Harry then. The number fourteen seemed ghastly. 

"Apparently?" Harry repeated, head spinning and Stanley nodded eagerly at his reaction, a small gleeful smile curling at the edge of his lips.

 "Apparently." Stanley confirmed. "Only thing is, no one, not even the ministry themselves, believe that Black did it. Not by himself at least. Black is a Pet." He told Harry, looking at Harry's face intensely. 

Harry's face, as it often did, remained a disappointment.

 Stanley leaned back, a frown pulling slightly at the edge of his mouth. "Anyway," He continued after a moment.

 “Since Black is a pet, there’s no way he could’ve done it by himself. Pet’s don’t really do that sort of thing, after all. Not unless they’re ordered to. They’re sorta compelled to follow orders.”

  Stanley claims, and although Harry isn’t quite sure that’s right, he keeps his mouth shut. What does he know? He’s only been in the wizarding world for two years. 

Besides, questions weren’t really appreciated by adults unless it was a school setting. Harry could remember multiple instances where he’d suffered the consequence of asking questions in a non school setting.

  Some part of Harry distantly wondered if that rule would change now that he’s Little. Another part told it to shut up and they didn’t have to wonder about any more now that he was on the run. Harry told the two Harrys to shut up and that he wasn’t crazy. Another one wondered if that was quite right. Harry decided he was done with the conversation. 

 “The ministry had to do something about the man though. Otherwise the masters were sure to get an Idea in their heads about having their pets doing all sorts of wicked things. He had to be made an example of.” Stanley shrugged, like this was clearly the obvious solution.

“A lot of people disagreed though, so when he escaped the first time, about six years back, people were cheering ‘im on. A bit strange cheering a murderer on if you ask me though.” Stanley scratched the stubble on his chin, folding his newspaper. “He’s escaped about fifteen times since then.”

 Harry blanches, his body going cold. “Fifteen?!” He nearly shouted, voice high pitched. “They’ve let a murderer-”

 “A Pet Murderer-”

 “Escape FIFTEEN TIMES?” Harry feels a little sick and afraid. His hands clench around his sippy cup of hot chocolate. 

“Well sixteen, now.” Stanley comments, which makes him freak out even more. 

Stanley frowns at the look on his face, before realization and a bit of guilt fills his own. “But don’t worry luv.” The man coos, waving his hands placatingly.

It does little to soothe him. “He never hurts a single person. You'll be fine.”

 A bell rings near the front and Stanley stands up immediately, storing his newspaper in a cupboard that Harry swore wasn’t there a minute ago. He hesitates for a moment, worried look on his face. 

Then the bell rings again, harsher this time, and he disappears up the stairs, leaving Harry to stew in his hysterical distress at the new information.

He didn’t have very long to think about it though, because a little after Stan left, the night bus came to an abrupt stop. Again. Harry knocked into the crib railing painfully, realizing belatedly that he’d let go of it to hold onto his chocolate. “London!” Stanley’s voice echoes throughout the night bus. Harry’s anxiety rises. 

He gets out of the bed carefully, swinging one leg after the other.

 The bed rails are much higher than he realized, however, and Harry stumbles back, waving his arms to regain his balance.

 "Careful dearest." An elderly witch with more wrinkles than face coos at him as she passes. Harry's face burns. He only manages a nod, waiting until the woman moves on before he hastily grabs his things.

  Ernie is just ahead, tipping his head to the few passengers who are getting off and wishing them well. Harry eyes various places in search for an escape route. He finds none. All the exit routes are being used. Except the windows, that is, and Harry doubts that he's quick enough to figure out the windows- if they even open. 

Harry reluctantly slides himself into the aisle. His heart is hammering like a jackrabbit and he fingers his wand. 

He might have to attack them in order to get off, he thinks grimly as he nears the front. A quick spell to the chest, doesn't matter what kind. Just enough to shock. Perhaps a freezing spell of some sorts. What was that spell Hemione used in their first year again? 

 “Harry!” A voice cries out in relief. Harry looks up, startled. He'd been so entrapped in his mind that he hadn't noticed he'd reached the front. 

The door was open, and to his surprise, and intense dread, Cornelius Fudge, the person who took Hagrid away back in Harry's second year, stood there right in front of the night bus steps. Wasn't he the minister?

Oh god, Harry thinks, heart falling, they've called the minister himself to bring me in. 

“It's so good we found you, Harry,” Fudge said, relieved. “Come along.” 

He watches as Stanley helps Harry with his trunk, waiting patiently to the side. When Harry is at last standing in front of him, he pulls out a pocket watch and stares at it for a moment. 

Pleased at what he's seeing, he gives a short nod to both Stanley and Ernie, who look like they're absolutely bursting at what they're witnessing, and turns to head into the leaky cauldron. 

Whispers break out furiously as soon as he turns his back, Harry managing to catch the words “Caregiver!?” and “Prime minister!”. 

He doesn't even think about the implications of that, too occupied with the MINISTER OF MAGIC personally giving him an escort. “Come along now, Mr.Potter. Let's get you inside, yes? Watch your step along this crack here. . .”

The minister leads him inside, offering a brief greeting to Tom the bartender, who looks at Harry with astonishment when he catches sight of the scar, and into a side room. 

The inside was ornately decorated, and the lit fireplace cast a gentle glow. Despite this, however, the room was cold In its color, stiff. Harry’s nervousness rose. 

   “Now, Mr.Potter,” the minister hummed, walking surely to the desk at the farthest end of the room.

 It was a big desk, professional and grand and a bit show-offy if you ask Harry. Fudge takes a seat at it, lowering himself elegantly into the comfy looking maroon chair.

 “Quite a fuss you've raised my boy. Quite a fuss indeed. A lot of aurors are out looking for you. All very concerned about your well-being of course.” 

Of course, Harry thinks dryly, also very concerned about how my aunt is now a chicken. 

“When the Ministry caught word that you’d gone away from your relatives home, we were all very concerned. Of course, I can see now that there was much to be concerned about. You're here, after all, perfectly safe, perfectly sound.” 

He paused for a moment to be assured that Harry indeed perfectly sound. When he was satisfied with his momentary scrutiny, he continued, his shoulders now noticeably more relaxed then they had been.

 “Yes, perfectly safe indeed. Best not run off from your relatives again dear boy, you never know what's lurking after all. Many dangerous things in the dark after all. Many.”

The Minister gained a faraway look in his eyes, face twisted like he'd been tucking on a lemon, likely imagining the dangerous things lurking in the dark. 

After a minute of silence, Harry’s gained enough courage to ask the question that's been hanging around his head since he started following Minister fudge. 

“Sir?” he says softly, voice echoing like a gunshot in the silent room. The Minister jolts like he's been slapped, and looks at Harry with wild eyes that relax after a moment.

“Yes, Mr.Potter?” Fudge says, the perfect picture of attentiveness. 

“My. . . Aunt, Sir. Am I in trouble?” The question makes Fudge blink like a languid cat, face twisted into one of bewilderment.

 “Your aunt?” He asks, and just when Harry’s about to explain, the confusion turns into understanding and his eyes light up.

“Oh, your aunt! The big woman, yes? Nasty accident that was, wasn't it Mr. Potter?” the minister chuckles lightly, not noticing the way Harry deflates slightly in relief. “Not to worry, dear boy. We've got her fixed up right as rain.” 

The minister heaves himself from the chair with a grunt of effort, still chuckling lightly. 

“Yes, yes.” The minister continues, making his way around the desk to stand in front of him. “She's quite alright now, Mr.Potter. You won't be in trouble at all. At least not with the ministry. I can't say the same for your Aunt and Uncle. Family matters and all.”

Fudge pats Harry lightly on the shoulder, hand neatly reaching into his overcoat to pull out a pocket watch, which he tuts at disapprovingly. 

“Quite late now. Best be off to bed with you. There's a room here that you can use, since it's awfully close to term. I’m sure the headmaster will agree. Unless you'd rather return home to your relatives?” 

At Harry's quick shake of the head, Fudge smiles lightly

“Wonderful!” he claps his hand onto Harry’s shoulder and begins herding him towards the door. “The headmaster will be here soon– ah, three days time I should think. He'll go over the matter with you. Ask him if you need anything else brought over as well.”

Tom is wiping down the bar when they exit the room. There's no one else in the bar. 

Harry’s pushed off to the side while Tom and Minister Fudge converse quietly, the bartender occasionally briefly glancing over at Harry. He's very obvious about it, though he's clearly trying very hard not to be. 

Eventually Fudge comes back over to tell Harry that he's set up in a room on the third floor of the inn; Close enough that he can ask for anything should he need it, but far enough that no one should bother him. 

He hands Harry his key and bids him a farewell along with another firm reminder to be careful. Harry believes he's always careful, but knows that the minister won't believe it, so he nods with a small smile and sees Fudge out the door. 

Once the man is gone he's led to his room. It's decently spacious and the bed is comfortable – not Hogwarts level, but pretty close. 

Alone, it's silent. Very silent. He takes a deep breath and his body relaxes, bed pressing into his every nook and cranny as he shuts his eyes. The exhaustion from the stress of the day comes rolling and he falls asleep nearly instantly.

He dreams of a disapproving Dumbledore, withholding lemon drops, and proclaiming that he's expelled because babies couldn't do magic. Snape kicks him out with glee, launching him all The way from Hogwarts to the Dursleys house where he is promptly swaddled in baby blankets so tight he chokes and perishes. 

When he wakes, there's an owl cooing in the corner with a letter in its claws and the sheets wound tightly around his neck. 

Upon discovering what the letter is, he wishes that the sheets had been successful. 

Meet Me when the clock strikes Three tomorrow

Albus Dumbledore

Harry swallows tightly.