Chapter Text
For as long as she could remember, Harriet Potter of Number 4, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, had always had a little voice in the back of her head. It had always been there, telling her what to do, how to put on a plaster, how to treat a scraped knee, how long to put burnt skin under cold water. The voice sometimes got angry, it hissed and swore words that Harry couldn’t remember learning, and it rattled against the sides of Harry’s skull sometimes causing headaches. It never got angry at her though, that was another good thing about the voice, it talked to her softly in a deep, soothing tone that seemed to wipe away her tears and calm her racing heart.
The voice never shouted at Harry, not like her Aunt Petunia. Aunt Petunia liked to screech and snap. She also liked to pinch, especially the tender skin of Harry’s ears. Sometimes she would slap, but only very rarely, and she’d only ever hit Harry with the frying pan once after Harry had burned the bacon. The burn had only lasted for a night, when Harry woke the next morning expecting to see a mess of scabbed skin and blisters there was nothing, just a silvery scarred oval and it had been several days till Harry heard the voice again. Aunt Petunia would sometimes take Harry shopping, often to dusty charity shops, getting the cheapest clothing on the rack but they were clothes for Harry, and they kept her warm in the wintertime. Aunt Petunia had also been the one to get Harry her glasses, thick black circle frames and blurry glass, they helped Harry see the board at school. Most importantly, they helped her read during playtime when all the other kids were off playing games, and Harry sequestered herself in the shabby school library until the bell rang. Harry didn’t particularly like Aunt Petunia, but her screeching voice and sharp nails were preferable to the heavy fists of Uncle Vernon and Dudley.
Uncle Vernon liked to hit, an open-palmed slap or a closed-fist punch, it didn’t particularly matter so long as Harry didn’t try and duck out of the way. He especially liked his belt. But he never used it on areas that could be seen when Harry was at school. Her back, her upper arms and the back of her thighs were all fair game though. He was also very loud, his voice thunderous when he was angry and his moustache would quiver and writhe like an angry caterpillar. Sometimes if he was particularly angry, at Harry, at the world, at people he deemed to be abnormal, his face would turn scarlet and beads of sweat would roll down his face. Sometimes the voice in Harry’s head would whisper, asking what colour Vernon’s face would turn if a hand appeared around his throat and began to choke him. Harry didn’t like it when the voice did that, and she would refuse to talk to the voice for days afterwards until it apologised reluctantly.
Dudley was just mean in a way that only children can be. He was a bully at school and a home, using his size and his fists to stop the other children from befriending Harry, warning them to stay away from her because she was a Freak. The other children listened. Harry couldn’t exactly blame them, she knew that children could be cruel and quick to judge. Most of them didn’t need Dudley’s encouragement, all it took was one look at the jagged lightning bolt scar striking down from the middle of Harry’s forehead, forking across the left side of her face, barely missing her eye. The bolt ended just the left corner of Harry’s lips, the scar tissue pulling uncomfortably on her skin and tugging her mouth down into an almost permanent frown. She knew in the eyes of her schoolmates her scar made her a monster.
Sometimes Dudley and his friends, Piers Polkis and Andrew Wayfield, would corner Harry behind the shed in the schoolyard, they’d twist the skin of her forearms till it burned, sometimes they’d hit her, their blunt fists driving the air from Harry’s lungs as they sank into the tender flesh of Harry’s stomach. The voice had some choice words to say about Dudley and Harry couldn’t find it in her to disagree.
For eight years, the voice had remained just that. A voice. A whisper. It had no physical form yet hearing it sent a bolt of warmth and safety through Harry. Sometimes, late at night, when Harry was locked in her cupboard, struggling to sleep, the voice would tell her to close her eyes, and a tickling sensation would run over her scalp, almost like fingers running through her hair, untangling the knots with more care than Aunt Petunia ever deigned to show. For eight years the voice had been a constant presence in Harry’s mind…until the day it wasn’t.
The day had started as usual, it was the summer holidays and Harry was graciously allowed a small lie-in as Dudley rarely exited his cave before ten o’clock. Now, at nine years old Harry was small for her age, something she was grateful for considering the size of her bedroom - the cupboard under the stairs - especially when stretching out her aching body in the mornings. She had been woken in the same manner as every morning, Aunt Petunia’s shrill voice and insistent rapping on the door of her cupboard. Harry had risen from sleep quickly, reaching out a hand to grasp her glasses and a pair of yesterday’s socks - which she had to pick a spindly house spider off of - and she waited for Aunt Petunia to undo the padlock and deadbolt on her door. Harry had then been sent off into the kitchen, to begin preparing breakfast for the Dursleys, carefully keeping an eye on the bacon, black pudding and eggs to ensure they were cooked evenly but not in danger of being perceived as burnt. In another saucepan, she emptied two tins of baked beans and set them to simmer, making sure to stir them to avoid any sticking to the bottom of the pan. She had set the table for three, made up a teapot and poured Dudley a large glass of orange juice just in time for Uncle Vernon to lumber downstairs. He appeared to be in one of his better moods today, giving Harry nothing more than a sneer over the top of this morning’s paper, which Harry was never allowed to read. Dudley finally made his appearance, no doubt enticed by the smell of bacon, which seemed to be the only thing that would pry him from his bed, especially during the summer holidays. Aunt Petunia then swanned in, pressing a kiss to Dudley’s ruddy cheek as she settled herself at the kitchen table. Now that all three were present, Harry silently plated their breakfasts up, not daring to ask what she would be allowed to eat. Once the Dursleys were served and had begun to eat, Aunt Petunia only indulged in a yoghurt and granola whereas Uncle Vernon and Dudley gladly tucked into the array of bacon, eggs, toast, beans and black pudding, Aunt Petunia clicked her tongue to get Harry’s attention.
“I want you to weed the garden this morning, it's already looking overgrown. Yvonne is coming round later and I cannot have her seeing the garden in a state.” Aunt Petunia snapped, glaring down the bridge of her prominent nose as if it was Harry’s fault that the weeds had begun to grow back.
“Yes, Aunt Petunia,” Harry said, ducking her head as she unlocked the back door and headed out into the blistering July heat. The sun instantly settled into Harry’s bones, warming her body throughout, she closed her eyes, for a brief moment, enjoying the sunshine for a few precious seconds. The voice hummed in agreement and a trickling sensation rolled down her neck, almost as if the voice was spreading itself out to warm in the sun like a cat. The sweet scent of the various flowers, that Harry had planted over the years, reached out and tickled her nose, blending with the smell of freshly cut grass from a few houses over. Out here in the garden, knelt down among the flower beds and the willow tree, Harry felt at peace. Protected from the sweltering sun by the shadows cast off various plants, but still kept warm and hidden away from prying eyes.
As she began to work out the weeds from the soft soil using only her hands, Harry recoiled in shock as her fingers brushed over something unexpectedly cool and smooth. A small snake with brown scales flecked with black, and a pale yellow underbelly was nestled under the leaves of a cluster of yellow dandelions. Its head reared up, staring up at Harry with beady yellow eyes. Its tongue flickered out, once, twice, tasting the air. It didn’t move. The voice in Harry’s head crooned softly, and Harry felt a tug of yearning settle deep into her chest.
“Oh, you’re very pretty,” Harry murmured to herself, looking at the way the snake’s scales gleamed in the sunlight. “I’m sorry for disturbing you, Mrs Snake.” She apologised, expecting the snake to slither away at any moment. It didn’t. Instead, the snake slid forward, towards Harry, until its snout touched the rough denim of her ragged jeans, its tongue flickered out again. And then the snake spoke in a hissing, sibilant whisper.
“Apology accepted,” The snake began to slither up onto Harry’s knee. Harry froze, unsure of how exactly to proceed. “And I’m not a female!” The snake hissed, almost petulant as it arched its head up to meet Harry’s wide-eyed gaze.
Whatever Harry might have said in return was drowned out by Aunt Petunia’s horrified shriek. Harry jolted, and the snake hissed angrily, darting back into the bushes. Looking up, Harry cringed at the pure anger written over Aunt Petunia’s pinched face, a pink flush spreading across her cheeks and down her long neck. The spindly woman strode over to where Harry was knelt, gripping Harry’s upper arm with a surprising amount of strength, her nails digging into the soft flesh. The voice in Harry’s head screeched with outrage but whatever vitriol it was spitting was entirely overwhelmed by Aunt Petunia’s shrieking voice as she dragged Harry to her feet and into the house. Harry’s socked feet slipped uselessly on the tiled kitchen floor as she was dragged through the room, Uncle Vernon looked puce in the face, Dudley just looked confused.
Aunt Petunia let go of Harry for a brief moment to wrench open the door to her cupboard before Harry’s arm was once again squeezed in a vice grip, Aunt Petunia’s manicured nails scratched at her skin, drawing thin lines of blood in their wake. Aunt Petunia leaned down, staring at Harry with a fire burning in her watery blue eyes.
“If you ever do something like that again, I swear you will not leave this cupboard until the end of August, am I understood?” Aunt Petunia’s shrill voice dug into Harry’s eardrums, mixing with the voice’s outraged shouting, creating a painful wave of noise that had tears springing into Harry’s verdant eyes.
“I’m sorry, I don’t-” Harry didn’t have time to finish her sentence, with a snarl on her face, Aunt Petunia practically threw Harry into her cupboard. Harry’s side hit the metal edge of her camp bed, something in her chest shifted and cracked and suddenly Harry found it hard to breathe, any attempts rattled pathetically in her chest as Aunt Petunia slammed the door shut, the familiar crunch of the deadbolt and the padlock sounded like a funeral bell toll.
It felt like liquid fire had been poured onto Harry’s ribs, even the slightest movement felt like knives stabbing into her torso, so she slumped on the cramped floor of her cupboard, unable to move, taking shallow breaths as her heart rabbitted in her chest. Blinking, Harry tried to focus her eyesight but black spots kept dancing behind her eyelids and while she knew that tears were running down her face, blurring her vision, the world seemed fuzzier around the edges than it normally did.
Harry heard the scraping of chairs in the kitchen, the thudding of feet in the hallway, and then the opening and slamming of the front door. Harry was alone in the house. And the voice had gone silent. Her mind echoed with an eerie silence.
A choked cry escaped Harry’s lips, a sob rattled in her chest. She slumped further to the floor, her head knocked against one of the legs of the camp bed and a dull bell-like sound rang out in her eardrums, barely audible over the pounding roar of her heartbeat in her ears.
She felt so tired…Harry blinked once, twice…tried to force her eyes to stay open…she failed…she’d never felt so exhausted...
As her eyes slipped closed one final time, she could have sworn she felt cold hands dance down her side. She caught sight of a pair of crimson eyes, glowing in the door of her cupboard staring down at her…and then her world went dark.
*
Slowly, Harry’s muddled mind swam back into consciousness. Dimly, she was aware of a great feeling of warmth, a solid thing around her waist held her tight against a warm surface that slowly moved. Under her cheek, Harry could feel something inside this surface steadily thumping in a strange rhythmic beat - da-dump, da-dump, da-dump . Harry breathed deeply, heaving a content sigh. There was no pain. Harry’s eyes shot open, a cry of alarm escaping her lips. She was met with the sight of silky black fabric covering a chest. The thing wrapped around her waist turned out to be an arm, clad in the same silky fabric and ending in a large, spindly pale hand, tipped with blackened fingers and claw-like nails. Trembling, Harry looked up and saw the face of a monster. Pale, sallow skin stretched over jutting, sharp cheekbones, pale, bloodless lips parted to reveal pointed teeth that gleamed white even in the darkness of the cupboard. Harry’s gaze travelled higher, her heart skipped a beat and a squeak of fear involuntarily escaped her, because staring down at Harry, was a pair of bright red eyes, glowing eerily, the colour of fresh blood. The same red eyes that haunted her less-than-pleasant dreams.
And yet Harry didn’t pull away. Something inside her called to this monster, something told her she was safe cradled to the chest of this Thing. And the voice in Harry’s head was gone.
The pale lips of the monster curled into a smile, “Hello Harriet.” It spoke in a soft, soothing tone and Harry felt the words vibrate through her body…this thing had spoken with the same voice that had been haunting Harry’s mind for the past eight years…Something crossed over the monster’s face, a twist of something melancholic before it smoothed over again.
“You…you-” Harry’s voice trailed off, unable to finish her sentence, she was only capable of staring open-mouthed at the creature that cradled her so gently, almost like a mother would cradle her babe. “You’re not real…I must be dreaming,” Harry murmured, frowning as her right arm crept down to pinch at the top of her thigh. She winced at the pain from the pinch, so, she was most likely not dreaming then.
“I wasn’t real,” The monster remarked, “Not for a long time. I was incorporeal, existing only inside your head.” The monster raised its free arm and reaching up, it caressed the lightning bolt scar on Harry’s forehead with a blackened thumb, cool to the touch. Warmth pulsed through the scar, washing down Harry’s body, and a feeling of safewarmgoodsafe echoed through Harry’s mind.
“You’re the voice,” Harry said numbly, awe-struck at how something as intangible as a voice in her head could feel so real and solid beside her.
“I am. But you may call me, M.” The monster - M, Harry corrected herself - replied with a soft smile on its (their? his?) lips.
“What are you?” Harry blurted out, her mind racing with possibilities. M chuckled, their lips peeling back to reveal gleaming white fangs.
“Harriet,” M laughed, a raspy high-pitched sound that was almost chiding in tone, “I’m your friend.”