Archive of Our Own ^beta

A boy sat on the floor of a messy bedroom. He was sorting through the mess of sour-smelling laundry and half broken toys that was littered across the floor. Anyone else watching this scene would think the small child organising and cleaning a messy bedroom was the owner. But… no.

This bedroom belonged to the boy’s pampered cousin who was older than him by 5 years.

That boy incapable of tidying his own room at the age of 14. Instead, the small 9-year-old who looked like he could be barely 7 was doing that.

As if it wasn’t enough, the small child’s aunt and uncle also seemed to need him to clean and tidy their master bedroom as well.

It was ludicrous.

It was ridiculous.

It was… normal for him.

He stretched over to grab a toy, but a sharp pain caused him to flinch. Yellow, blue and purple bruises spread across his die, each at varying levels of recovery. He curled in slightly into himself, the injuries from the older boy’s favourite game of ‘Harry Hunting’. The hand shaped bruises from his uncle’s large hands, a punishment for not cooking quick enough or was it from cleaning incorrectly.

Still there was a small mercy. For a few minutes he wasn’t being watched.

He organised the dusty, untouched books into alphabetical order. Placing them gently on the bookshelves. He had finished the books that were on the shelves and now picking books up off the floor. That was when he saw it. It was blue with a sword across the side. George R.R. Martin ‘A Game of Thrones’. He remembered Aunt Petunia buying the box set a couple days ago when Dudley asked for the series.

She had asked Dudley to at least read it before watching the series. Dudley had one of his tantrums that shook the house (he had learned to hide when those happened) until she relented. Now, Dudley was sat watching the first episode while he fixed the messes.

…

It wasn’t like Dudley would notice.

If he just borrowed it.

He would return it later.

It wasn’t stealing or anything.

And Dudley wasn’t reading it.

Nervously he placed the book under the dying plant pot, no one ever checked there. He would grab it when everyone went to sleep.

Smiling and humming he finished cleaning, he loved reading, wishing the night would come sooner.

That night, he listened to the doors slamming and thudding from his overweight relatives. Once he was certain that everyone was asleep, he crept out of his cupboard. He’d figured out how to unlock it from the inside to steal unwanted food at night a couple years ago. As much as the Dursleys hated his freakishness, what they didn’t know wouldn’t kill them. After all his freakishness always helped him if he asked.

But he couldn’t even follow the rules of no freakishness. Why must he constantly follow his freakish nature?

He crept up the stairs two at a time making sure to be mindful of the creaking step. He lay on the floor and lifted the pot. He grabbed the book and slipped back down the stairs. He closed the cupboards and relocked it.

He curled up in his ratty bed, careful to avoid the sharp springs and summons the light. The small ball of white light bobbed in the air and pulsed. He opens the book. Smiling he guided the magic across the lines as he read.

It wasn’t long before he was absorbed into the beautiful and complicated world of Westeros. The boy was lost in the turns and learning about the family dynamics. He cares for the characters. Ned Stark’s loyalty and honour that lead to his death. Dany’s rise from nothing.

And most of all in Jon Snow.

He falls for the Bastard of Winterfell.

His cunning and will.

From that day on he enjoyed chores downstairs just so he could strain his ears to hear the dialogue from Dudley watching the series. It allowed him to discover the voices to the faces and names. To better imagine everyone.

He stole the other books, one at a time, absorbing the story.

Years later, the boy was told he’s a wizard… not a freak. A… wizard.

A natural thing.

A species.

One of a community.

Every time the boy wizard thought about it, it made him want to crawl back into his cupboard and cry.

He was told by a large man, a half giant, called Hagrid. The man was open and honest. It was helpful but he certainly couldn’t trust the man with secrets. He had learned from reading that pure honestly gets you killed. It was strange to him, why would someone who was not a teacher escort him.

Even stranger was that the man had his bank vault key. It was supposed to be his, he hated anyone having things that belonged to him. It made the boy wonder who had it and why someone was allowed to have his key before him.

The banks lobby was much more crowded in comparison to when they had first arrived. Its desks had long queues of wixen, at least three wixen to one goblin teller.

He was being guided back through a bank lobby. A goblin had stopped them before they left the bank. The goblin, Sharphook, was the Potter Family teller. He was straightforward so long as you asked the rightquestions. It was clear to the wixen child, he’d read and observed enough scenarios to tell the signs. He taken him, just him, Hagrid had been told to stay behind. They travel down a series of confusing corridors. He is led into an office.

“Sit.” Sharphook orders and he complies.

“Here.” Sharphook hands him a piece of parchment and a knife. “Your parents adopted you. If you wish to find out who they were you just need to pour several drops of your blood on this. It is up to you when and if you do so.”

He was… adopted.

He was ADOPTED!!!

THEN WHO WAS HE?!?

IF HE WASN’T THEIR SON, WHOSE WAS HE?!?

WHY WOULD THEY SACRAFICE THEMSELVES FOR SOMEONE WHO WASN’T EVEN THEIR CHILD?!?

But… but that means the Dursleys weren’t his family either. He needs to calm down. No one should be able to see your weaknesses. He takes a deep shaky breath in and out.

“Who else knows I’m adopted?” he asks.

“Your parents and the person who gave you to them.” Sharphook responds. The boy frowns.

“Who’s that?”

“Professor Dumbledore.”

That was strange. Why would Hogwarts headmaster give a baby to the Potters? What was truly going on? Why would Dumbledore, the same Dumbledore who sent a clumsy half-giant to collect a child and a hidden artifact, give the same child to the Potters?

The child frowns and nods.

“I don’t want to know yet.” He couldn’t know yet. He wasn’t even sure he was safe to be around yet. How could he upturn someone else’s life for his own desires.

Sharphook nods and hands him a small silver locket.

“Use this to hold it. We will wait until it is revealed.” The goblin gives him a sharp and toothy smile.

The kid turns and leaves. He tried not to hurry out, but he really needed to get away from the goblin. He still wasn’t certain he would sell him out. Too many adults had proven his predictions and convictions correct as the first possible hurdle. He rejoined Hagrid at the front desks, and they left.

“You good, ‘Arry?” Hagrid asks and the boy silently nods. He pulled up a mask of calm to hide every rushing thought of distress and distrust that crossed his mind.

Hogwarts was the closest he would get to a home, a possible haven. It was wonderful with its endless library and hidden alcoves. Though safety was never guaranteed. Especially seeing as it was riddled with flaws.

Killer teachers.

Questionable ghosts.

Reckless and gullible students.

The sorting hat had wanted him in Slytherin, but the child had debated that it was unsafe. After all, most of the students were children of former death eaters, more likely to kill him in his sleep for revenge. Rather than befriend him, and the other houses seemed to hate Slytherin. The hat seemed to mistake his logic for bold courage and throwing him to oblivious lions.

It was good he ended up there though. The media seemed to have a field day of running his name through the mud anytime he didn’t follow their unspoken script. It was boy saviour one day and budding dark lord the next in the eyes of the Daily Prophet.  

He kept to himself most of the time, curled in a ball in a hidden corner until curfew, the comfort of feeling walls all around him. He would then hide in his bed, reading books on magic and history. He did not wish to be left in the dark with anything. He couldn’t be left in the dark.

Ignorance is bliss.

Understanding is influence.

And knowledge was power after all.

There however was one boy, he was a stout ginger who seemed to think the wixen child was either his friend or somehow too arrogant. It felt more like being on the edge of a knife than a companionship. He insisted on dragging the child into senseless adventures that usually were obvious manipulations or plain stupid. He hated it.

It had left more scars.

A crack looking one, like Kintsugi, on each of his hands from killing his teacher with the stones power and a large scar from the basilisk’s bite. The venom had been more painful than the bite itself, but he was fine.

That was not fun.

The ginger had dragged him, even left behind hand shaped bruises, to save his naïve sister. At least he got to talk to someone with some level of intelligence down there. It felt so freeing for someone who wasn’t gullible or downright stupid being active.

Sad he was trying to kill him.

The child watched as a sword seemed to materialise next to him, beautiful shinnying steal and golden hilt with a lion head on it.

So… the child stabbed the memory? Teenager? Book with the sword. Watching numbly as it screamed before returning to the book.

He stole the book and his sword, it reminded him of Brightroar, the Lannister’s missing Valyrian sword. It was his sword anyway; it had appeared before him. Well before Fawkes appeared with the sorting hat.

He then had to lead the little girl who kept acting like he was her prince charming back to her equally useless brother.

On the other hand, their older twin brothers were notorious pranksters, and he actually liked them. They were kind to him. They told him where it was best to hide for peace and quiet. After the first prank incident, they had turned one of the first year’s hair blue reminding him of when he’d used the same magic on his teacher, that had resulted in a bad punishment. The child had a panic attack quietly in the corner. The twins had been the only ones to notice and care.

They spared him from pranks ever since. They would warn him of upcoming mass pranks and showed him hiding spots.

They slowly managed to make their way into his closer bubble. He would even consider the twins his friends.

After dobby stole his letters last year, he hated relying on owls.

The diary had given him an idea. He made a set of three diaries, using runes to bind them to each other. So, he, Fred and George could talk to each other over the holidays. No interruptions.

He trusted the twins.

Both years at Hogwarts, the wixen child had been top of his class, making sure to get good grades. That seemed to piss off one of the girls in his house. A particular brunette with frizzy hair and a very goody-too-shoes attitude. But the child wasn’t here to make friends. He was here to learn and then disappear.

The worst part was returning to the Dursleys at the end of every year. Dumbledore insisted it was for his protection. That due to blood wards, blood wards that required the child to be related to Petunia Dursley to be effective, would keep him safe from Death Eaters.

The man barely hides his manipulation.

He didn’t hide the hints of adventures.

He ignored the complaints he made.

He insisted family loves each other.

Dumbledore knew he wasn’t related to the Dursleys.

He knew the wixen child was adopted.

He knew what was going on in that house.

The child had hinted and even directly told him several times.

And he needed the child to fit his mould correctly.

He needed an obedient martyr.

An easy pawn.

A weapon.

All the little wixen had to do was fake it until the projected imaged matched the desired one by the old headmaster.

He could act.

No one would see past his mask.

Not in the years he’s held it up.

And now, at present, he was sat in Dudley’s second bedroom. Curled into his still ratty, but at least better than the stained and sharp one in his cupboard, mattress with his laptop. He’d converted some wizard gold for muggle cash and bought one last year with the help of Sharphook.

He’d need one to complete his GCSEs, seeing as he wanted to go to muggle uni. He couldn’t disappear from the Wixen world with no support or plans.

No.

His plans were to complete his GCSEs and A-Levels, online and then go to University with his birth name. Most wixen were ignorant to the muggle’s development and technology. To think he, who was a child, knew more than most adult wixen on this. He just needed to use that to his advantage.

Reaching into his satchel, that he had burned expansion runes into the seams, he pulled out some books. He opened to his notes on animaguses since he had seen Professor McGonagall transform in his first transfiguration lesson. After the Chamber incident he and the twins had decided to start the process, placing a mandrake leaf at the roof of his mouth. He didn’t want to be easily caught. Who would think a small kid could do such advanced magic?

All he had to do was wait for an electrical storm. It had taken weeks, but the weather had been sombre and temperamental for the last couple days. So, the child hoped a storm would come soon.

There was one downside.

Marge Dursley was coming to visit.

Marge was not a pleasant woman. She liked to insult anyone, eat all she could and set her dogs on people she didn’t like, namely the family freak.

Usually this wasn’t a problem, she typically visited while he was at school. Or. For a short while where he would be locked in either his cupboard or the second bedroom. This time it was for a week.

A week with that woman hounding him for existing.

It made his stomach twist and hands shake.

Night one wasn’t so bad. The Dursleys allowed him to sit in the second bedroom and study while they greeted and caught up with Marge. She seemed to have forgot he existed so long as he hid in the second bedroom.

Night two the wixen was lucky.

There was a storm. Which was perfect! At long last!

Slight issue.

How was he going transform with Marge in the house?

Solution. Go to the park and hide in the forest. There was less of a chance of any Dursley’s interrupting the process and accidentally killing him.

He grabbed the vial. Slipped down the stairs, crept over the creaking stair and avoiding Ripper. He slid out the front door.

He ran through the pelting rain and thunderous sounds. The rain pelted against his face, blurring his vision, he was glad he had got his vision magically fixed when he found out that was possible. His clothes and hair stuck to him within seconds. The wind tried to topple him.

He ran into the park and further into the forest. He sat drenched and muddy. He pointed his wand at his heart chanting “Amato Animo Animato Animagus” for the last time. Too late to be nervous now.

He chugged the blood-red potion.

He sat and felt an animal cross his vision.

It resembled a stag however… it had an almost wolf build. With ears that stood up straight with a cupped appearance. Its antlers were huge. Its hooves looked like they had merged with a paw. It has muscles making its legs look wider and more robust and an extremely long wide tail. In itself it was huge. A stag was usually 5 feet, but this one seemed closer to 8.

Frowning. He knew he couldn’t transform for the first time in a muggle neighbourhood. Too high a chance of someone seeing a clearly magical creature. He wished he could. The new animal side was overwhelming his senses with the small of rain and ozone from the lightning.

He wanted to run free.

But he couldn’t.

So, he turned and walked back to number 4, slipping back inside. Slipping back into his hellish prison. He slipped into his room and changed into dry clothes.

Night three he sat and reread ‘Fantastic beasts’ hoping to figure out what he was while he waited to be called down to cook dinner. He really hated being their personal slave. Made him wonder if slavery was truly abolished.

He had got to page 238 when he was called down, much to his disappointment.

He placed his books back in his satchel and trudged down. The heaviness of imaginary weight of those whales called the Dursley family.

Marge took one look at his hair and scoffed. The wixen child grabbed a hair band and tied it back. He had taken a food safety course online and as much he wished the Dursley’s would get food poisoning. He’d rather they weren’t able to directly relate it to him. He had grown his hair out after reading that Jon had long hair, plus it was easier to manage.

Jon’s hair always seemed so pretty.

Marge liked to call him a pansy and a hussy for it but the woman was a menace anyway so it wouldn’t matter what he did, she would still insult him. The wixen child was numb to it at this point.

After all, why should he care what a bitter fat dullard?

He started mashing the potatoes that was probably able to feed a family of 10 rather than 3 people and a horse of a woman. He hated how mechanically his body moved to provide for those pigs. He tried to ignore the people at the table when Marge said something.

“Bad blood will out. Now, I'm saying nothing against your family, Petunia" she patted Aunt Petunia's bony hand with her shovel like one. It made the wixen child want to smack them both with a shovel. "But your sister was a bad egg. They turn up in the best families. Then she ran off with a wastrel and here's the result right in front of us."

The wixen child tried. He really tried not to reach out with his magic and just snap her neck.

How dare she! How dare she insult the kind people who risk themselves for a child who wasn’t even theirs! They were the only parental figures he had! He’d rather be Valhalla with them!

The wixen felt as his magic slipped out of his core. He tried to rein it in but if a little got loose. The vile woman shut up.

Then Petunia shrieked.

The child looked up and his eyes widened with surprise. Marge was swelling. Swelling like a balloon.

That was not what he intended.

He couldn’t be there.

He needs to move.

He felt his body unfreeze. When had he frozen up?

The boy ran.

Dropping everything he was doing. He ran up to the second bedroom and grabbed his satchel, stuffing his books, notes, wand and laptop. His satchel already had all his stuff from Hogwarts in it, plus the hoard of food he’d got from the house elves before he left as per usual. He opened Hedwig’s cage and let her out the window, she would always find him. She needed to be safe. For that she needs to be away from him.

He rushed out the room, catching himself on the doorframe. That might sting later but now he can’t feel it. Skipping several stairs at a time. His ankle landed strange on one, but he doesn’t care.

He burst out the door.

Feeling as those inky hands that were drowning him were forced to let go as he broke free.

He’d forgot what it was like for them not to be there.

He could hear Vernon’s yelling.

Petunia’s screeching.

Dudley’s wailing.

He wasn’t theirs anymore.

He ran down the street.

He ran away from that house.

He was done.

Done pretending.

He couldn’t be obedient anymore.

Or match their perfect ‘normal’ life.

He couldn’t stop.

Not until he was out of their reach.

He didn’t stop running until he was several streets away. His brain refused to acknowledge the burning in his limbs as the dryness of his lungs. He knew none of the Dursley’s were fit enough to catch up to him for at least half an hour. He sat down on the curb and sighed with relief. His hands and legs trembled.

He was out!

He was free!

Well free until Dumbledore got word and forced him back.

Wixen had easy way to bind people to their will.

Would the man Imperio him into staying?

They weren’t even his family.

By blood or love.

They were nothing to him.

The child flinched.

There was a rustling noise from what he assumed was a bush.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots subtly movement.

Reaching into his satchel subtly he pulls out his wand with sweaty hands.

Then he looks in that direction.

He sees a… dog.

It was a large bony shaggy black dog.

Its black hair looked like it was matted and missing patches. It had small limp and visible ribs.

The wixen child didn’t mind most dogs, just hated small ones like Ripper the bulldog. Marge hated big dogs. Big dogs were always rather docile with him.

Hesitantly he extends his empty hand for the dog to sniff.

The dog sniffs before bounding around him. Tail wagging and vibrating. Causing the kid to smile. He reaches out and the dog butts his head against his palm.

“Aren’t you a lively dog? Such a nice boy!” he compliments watching as the dog seems to preen. It causes him to laugh. It has been a while since he laughed. It surprised him.

The world blurred slightly at the edges of his vision and his ears popped.

He’s about to continue but something doesn’t feel right.

He feels itchy, his magic sparking under his skin.

The ground didn’t feel real.

It felt like it vibrating however it wasn’t moving.

The dog starts barking at the floor and baring is teeth.

That’s not a good sign.

He tries to stand.

But he’s stuck, like his shoes are fused to the ground and his legs have locked up.

Like invisible strings were holding him in place.

The dog tries to paw at the ground, but the dog is stuck too.

The boy wants to help but his arms have gone limp.

There was cracking…

Then the ground seems to violently tear open.

It looked like the solar system, but the stars kept glitching and duplicating. The layers overlapping, pixelating and spinning.

It spreads until both the wixen child and the dog are sucked.

It felt like he was being ripped to shreds and put back together all at once.

His bones were bending and breaking while being healed at the same time.

This shouldn’t be possible.

But…

When has magic ever been possible?

He thinks he’s screaming but he wasn’t sure if he still had his vocal cords at the time.

He certainly can’t hear the screams.

Then he falls out of… something.

It was white and red.

His vision is too blurred to truly understand what it is.

The pain stops.

He hears a yelp and thud as the dog also falls.

He is wet and cold with what he assumed was snow that softened the fall.

He can smell pine and water.

The dog is whining and crawling over to him.

It nudges him and curls into his side.

He lays there as his vision gets more… and more blurry.

Minutes ticking by.

Then he hears a crunch.

Snow under boots.

A faint scent of smoke and leather.

A silhouette…

Someone rushes into his line of sight.

The distorted face looked masculine with what he assumed was a brown beard. He had long looking hair and dark clothes. A cloak too. But it’s too blurry, maybe he’s hallucinating… or mistaken or concuss.

The colours seem to shift around his face as the wixen child’s vision swims.

It reminded him of the costumes in Game of Thrones like the wonders of fiction he so loves.

He smiled as he’s reminded of how much he loves that story.

The man yelled something with a strange accent, the noise muffled and warped.

The dog growls and shifts.

But the dog doesn’t leave his side.

That’s nice.

At least the dog won’t leave him.

Something itchy but soft wraps around him and he’s lifted.

That’s much warmer.

…

..

.

That was when the lost child’s vision faded away.