Chapter Text
The Dursleys, of number four, Privet Drive, were a perfectly normal family, thank you very much. There was absolutely no strangeness, no nonsense and nothing mysterious about them or the things they did. Mr Vernon Dursley worked a good job that earned him good money. Mrs Petunia Dursley was a good wife that maintained a good home. Even little Dudley was as normal as normal boys could come.
But things changed on a fine November morning when Vernon Dursley opened the front door to grab the newspaper, but found instead a bundled up baby with a lightning shaped scar. A very abnormal shaped scar, with a very abnormal letter, that described this child as the abnormal son of Petunia’s very abnormal sister.
---
Vernon grabbed his coat, cursing the rain as he squeezed into the ruddy old thing. He needed a new one. That boy had done something to it, he was sure. Mr Dursley had exactly three regrets in his life, and that boy was all of them. First was not dropping the thing off at an orphanage the moment it arrived. Second was thinking they could force the boy to become normal by raising it properly. And third was right now, after arriving at work and finding his brief case empty of very important and very official documents, and full of actual rotting, stinking rubbish.
“That paperwork better be on my desk before the day is over, Dursley!”
Vernon slammed the office door shut behind him, ignoring his manager and grumbling as he huffed and puffed his way down to his car. That freak was going to pay for this. Oh, it was going to rue the day it dared lay a freakish finger on Mr Vernon Dursley’s property. Or whatever freakish thing the boy had done to replace his very important and very official documents with the contents of their rubbish bin.
Vernon had no idea how he’d managed it. And quite frankly, he did not care, because this was never going to happen again.
Mr Dursley trudged through the miserable rain, boiling with anger as he shoved himself into his car, slammed the door and sped off out of the car park.
Five years, he had dealt with this. Five years, and he was done.
Every traffic light was red, which only gave his fury more time to fester and grow. His manager’s puny little whiny voice, screeching in his ears about how irresponsible, careless and lazy he had been to let this happen. Vernon gripped the steering wheel tighter, flinging the car around every corner, ignoring how the tires spun and the car slipped across the wet road.
Heavy heat was filling his head so much it felt like it may burst ache. His head was thumping and his mumbling grumbles were ready to turn into screams. In the rear-view mirror he could see himself starting to resemble one of those circus clowns with red paint on their face, his jaw clenched, moustache twitching and eyebrows so angrily pressed together they’d merged into one.
Approaching the house, he yanked the steering wheel and pulled sharply into the yard, startling Mrs Dursley, who was sipping tea under the front pergola. He missed the driveway, and hit the garden, turning the carefully mowed lawn into muddy tire tracks, woodsplinters, and splattered flowers.
Vernon Dursley did not care.
“What on earth are you doing!?” Petunia shrieked, but Vernon shoved straight past her and into the house. Dudley was out at a birthday party for some boy Piers, but the brat would be here, skulking around in some dirty dark corner.
“BOY!” Vernon roared, stomping his way down the hall. The cupboard door was open and empty, as it would be in the middle of the day with chores to be done. Five was more than old enough for a freeloading waste of space to earn his keep. “GET! HERE! NOW!”
Something smashed in the kitchen, and when Vernon entered, he found the boy. He was trembling on a chair in front of a bubbly sink, his eyes wide, shaking hands covered in soap suds and a shattered glass on the floor below him.
He cowered the moment Vernon stepped toward him, tears welling up as threw his hands over his head and crouched down into a ball.
“ENOUGH! IS! ENOUGH!”
Vernon reached out and grabbed the boy by the back of his neck, lifting him up off the chair as high as he could reach, before slamming him into the floor headfirst. The assault would go on for an hour. Blow after blow, punctuated by verbal berating. Ending with a bloodied and bruised boy being thrown into the cupboard, no longer moving and no longer making a sound.
Vernon went for a shower, while Petunia mopped the floor. Both of them grumbling about the idiot boy and the mess he had just made. Because Vernon wasn’t an angry man with a short temper, of course not. He was a loving father and a caring husband who selflessly took in his orphaned nephew. A nephew with a penchant for extraordinarily poor behaviour that incited anger in even the most calm of people, such as Mr Vernon Dursley.
They revelled in the lack of sound coming from the cupboard under the stairs, glad that their punishments must have finally sunk in enough to shut the boy up. Vernon redressed and redid his paperwork, while Petunia put on a load of laundry to get that dirty boy's blood out of Vernon’s expensive suit.
It wouldn’t be until later that evening, when Petunia wanted the dinner dishes washed, that the cupboard door would be opened and Mrs Petunia Dursley and Mr Vernon Dursley would find the deceased remains of little Harry James Potter.
---
The last thing Harry remembered before falling asleep was wishing his mummy and daddy would come save him. His mummy would kiss all his aches and pains better, like Auntie did for Dudley. His daddy would call him a brave boy and bring him ice-cream, like Uncle did for Dudley. They’d both give him a big, warm hug, and even if Harry was crying, they wouldn’t hurt him.
For the moment after Harry regained consciousness and before he opened his eyes, he wondered if his wish had been granted. Because unlike all the other times his uncle got mad and dis-a-pl-in-d him, he hadn’t woken up in pain where he’d been struck, in fact, for the first time in forever, Harry didn’t feel any aches at all.
But then Harry opened his eyes, and found himself staring down into a mirror... except... it wasn’t a mirror... there was no glass... but... that was him... wasn’t it? The little boy on the mattress beneath him looked exactly like Harry did in the mirror, but very sore. He had lots of red blood splattered on him, and there were blackened purple spots all over his skin. His nose was a bit crooked, and his lips were quite big and swollen.
His eyes were open too, and they were green just like Harry’s. But he wasn’t blinking, and Harry couldn’t even see his chest moving from breathing. He looked like a doll, or a statue, or one of those people that stood perfectly still in the street for money. The Dursley’s never gave them money.
Harry looked around himself, trying to figure out where he was, but that question was quickly answered. This was his cupboard. Those were Dudley’s old pirate bedsheets under the other Harry, and that was Dudley’s old dinosaur pillow scrunched up in the corner. The teddy beside it with the ripped off arm and missing eyes was the same one Dudley had thrown in the bin and Harry saved.
This was his cupboard. And Harry was somehow glued to the roof, with another person that looked exactly like Harry sleeping in his bed. Well, probably sleeping. Harry didn’t know of anyone that slept with their eyes open.
Harry wondered how he was meant to explain this situation to his auntie and uncle when they came looking for him. They’d be angry. Harry shivered. They would be very angry. The Dursley’s didn’t like strange things, and this was a very strange thing indeed. Harry shivered again as his eyes started stinging and vision went blurry. Uncle would hurt him again for this. He would. He really would.
Harry hugged his knees to his chest, and a whimper escaped as wet tears rolled down his cheek. He tried to stop the cries from coming, knowing that would just make auntie and uncle even madder, but he couldn’t. The sobs released without permission, loud and strong, only worsening his panic.
Harry wasn’t allowed to cry. Harry wasn’t allowed to talk. Uncle was going to hurt him again. Just like earlier. More hits. More blood. More pain so intense it felt like he was going to split in half. He couldn’t do that. He couldn’t. Please. There had to be a way to fix this. He couldn’t do that again.
But what could he do? He was in his cupboard and there was no way out. There was never a way out.
Harry curled up tighter, scrunching his eyes up so much it hurt, not noticing that the more he squeezed the brighter the room got. The brighter he got.
Please... I’m sorry... I’m really sorry...
He wanted to go. He needed to go. He couldn’t be here anymore. Please.
Harry squeezed himself again, tighter and tighter. Wishing to go somewhere safe. Wishing he could go home...
---
Most of the ghosts that resided at Hogwarts, had not actually died on the schools grounds. Some chose to come here because it was safe. Others were drawn here on instinct. Helena Ravenclaw had come because her mother was here, then chosen to stay because there was nowhere else worth going.
She’d been the first ghost to choose Hogwarts as her home, and the baron had followed her not long after. A couple decades later, an ex-student, a Hufflepuff by the name Friar Pliensby, joined them too. Since then, many had come and gone, some staying only a few decades, and others choosing this as their home.
Helena preferred to remain in her mothers old tower, sometimes meeting students with wit that she thinks could have rivalled Rowena’s. They were fun. Even until that one Slytherin boy who tricked her like she was a simple fool.
This existence was... an existence. Not good nor bad. Not fun nor boring. Time passed like a sieve, and she made no note of the livings quarrels. People were born. People died. Wars were waged. Armies surrendered. It had no impact on her. She was already dead. She didn’t care.
It was a day like any other, the day she stumbled upon the newest Hogwarts ghost.
“Please... I’m sorry...”
Helena stopped like she’d been struck. That’s not possible... Her head snapping to her left, Helena carefully drifted toward the cupboard that... that sounded like it contained a child... a distressed, crying child... but that couldn’t be.
It was the middle of June, there were no living beings here besides rodents. And yet...
“I’m really sorry...”
...that was the unmistakable plea of a whimpering child.
Helena did not hesitate at the doors threshold, phasing through the wood without a second thought. And there, curled up on the floor, was a crying, silvery, translucent little boy. His hair was a mess and his clothes looked three sizes too big. They were stained with blood too, almost like he was a miniature Bloody Baron.
Poor baby...
Ghost children were rare. Beyond rare. They were nearly unheard. Helena herself, in all her years of death, had only met two ghosts under the age of ten. Both had watched one of their parents return as a ghost, then refused to leave them behind upon their own passing. That was it.
Children were not usually old enough to fully understand what dying meant, and as a result usually had no reason or desire to push against the light and fight to remain. But apparently... this one had...
Helena had been a ghost for far longer than she had lived. She had avoided interacting with children before dying and could count on one hand how many she’d engaged with since. She didn’t have the patience to deal with their emotions, but it didn’t seem like she had much of a choice in this.
“Child? Why are you crying? Why are you here?”
This grabbed the boy's attention like a moth to a flame. His head shot up, and Helena could see silvery tears rolling down his cheeks the way Myrtle’s tears did. He seemed to pause for a moment. His gaspy breaths stopped along with his cries, as he stared at Helena.
She offered a smile, but that broke his spell. His face morphing into horror and he scrambled backwards, back hitting the wall. That made her frown. Phasing through materials was easy, but it required, at the very least, an awareness of one's own death.
This would suggest the boy was recently dead. Helena groaned. Mother save me. And that he didn’t know he was dead.
The cries started up again and Helena had half a mind to cover her ears. But she resisted. That never helped when Myrtle was moaning.
Instead she dropped her feet to the floor, crouching down to her knees and summoning whatever motherly instincts she’d buried a thousand years ago.
“My name is Helena,” she kept her voice soft, touching her hand to her chest, before reaching out. “What is yours?”
The boy said nothing. He just stared, gasping rapidly, eyes wide in terror as he looked her up and down. Helena eyed the blood soaked rags that seemed to be clothes. At the obvious bruising on his arms and around his neck.
“You are in no danger,” she added. “This place is safe. I promise, no harm will come to you.”
This seemed to be the right move.
The boy was far from relaxing, but his breathing did at least slow. That was as good as an invitation she was going to get. Helena floated forward slowly, trying to make her movement discreet. It worked for long enough to get within touching distance, and she pounced on the boy.
He yelped and perhaps there was a better way to do this, but she was doing it this way and that was that. Before the boy could shift out of the way, Helena had her arms around him, holding her up to her chest. Holding his head and rubbing circles into his back she vaguely remembered her mother once doing to her.
The boy resisted, but she persisted.
“Shhh... you are safe... it is alright... nothing can hurt you here...”
The boy twisted and turned, but Helena held on, making full use of the fact ghosts were ‘physical’ to each other. Eventually, the boy became quieter, he still shook, but he no longer attempted to break free. At some point even leaning into Helena and hugging her back.
Progress...
“Do you remember your name?” she asked softly, raking her fingers through his hair. “Mine is Helena.”
The boy made a whimper, then took a breath.
“H-Har-ry,” he choked out, his voice rough with grief.
“Hello, Harry,” she whispered back warmly. “Do you know where we are? Or how you got here?”
Harry shook his head, leaning back into her chest and hugging her tightly.
“This place is called Hogwarts, do you know what name?”
Harry once again shook his head and Helena pursed her lips. If he had never heard of Hogwarts by this age, he was more than likely raised muggle. Which also meant he likely had no idea ghosts existed. Or that he could be one. And thus made it even stranger he would become one at all.
“That’s alright, all you must know is that Hogwarts is a safe place. No one will hurt you here.”
Harry sniffled and leaned back, his eyes wet with tears and his little lips pouting.
“No h-hurting, ever?” he asked weakly. Helena nodded. “Do you p-promise?”
“I promise, Harry,” she smiled cupping her hand to his cheek, eyeing the blood covered boy sadly and wondering what awful, violent death this boy had endured. “This place is safe.”
This broke the dam, and the boy began crying even harder. But this time, he didn’t shy away. This time, held Helena tighter than she’d ever been held before. And she held him back.
---
Helena was much nicer than Auntie. Harry knew that because she was giving him a hug instead of pushing him off and locking him in his cupboard for crying too loud. He didn’t know why she looked shiny and see through and that scared him at first. But he’d decided that didn’t matter when she wrapped him up in a hug and promised he would be ok.
He cried on Helena until he felt sleepy, and the tears would no longer come. He let himself relax, no longer gripping for dear life and letting his mind wander about where he was.
Hogwarts, was what she called it. A strange name for a place if you asked Harry, and a name the Dursley’s would certainly never approve of. Uncle and auntie didn’t go to odd places. Maybe that’s why Helena said this place is safe?
Looking around Harry deduced he was once again in a cupboard. But not his cupboard. This one was made of grey rocks and had no bed. It was also bigger than his cupboard, with dusty shelves, a few buckets, a mop and a broom. It was all very dirty, but it wasn’t dark.
“How are you feeling, Harry?”
Harry nodded gently, turning back to face Helena. She was still a bit see through, but not fully. Harry could see her eyes and nose and mouth very clearly. Even her eyelashes. She was also still very bright silver. That’s why it wasn’t dark here.
“Why are you like a light?”
Helena smiled.
“I am magic,” she said simply, making Harry frown.
“But auntie and uncle said magic’s not real.”
Helena’s smile wavered, but Harry didn’t know what that meant so ignored it.
“Watch this,” she whispered, before pointing at one of the old candles on the shelves. One second it was dark, and the next it was on fire. Harry’s jaw dropped. That was... that wasn’t... but... that...
“Magic is very real.”
The candle flicked out, then back on, then out again, and Harry turned back to Helena in amazement. She just grinned.
“Again?” he asked. And this time Helena stood up, taking him with her and walking over to the candles. She waved her arm and Harry squealed. All of the candles had come to life. Every single one had a flickering fiery top. And there were so many. Even more than on Dudley’s cakes!
“Wow...” he murmured, staring in absolute awe. “It’s very pretty.”
“I agree,” Helena hummed. “It’s very pretty.”
She waved her hand and they turned off. Then waved it again and they all turned on. She twisted her hand and the little fires got bigger. She twisted it back and they turned blue. Harry giggled.
“May I ask you some questions, Harry?”
The light faded and Harry turned back, nodding. His chest felt warm for the first time in... well... ever.
“Do you know what dying means?”
That warmth in his chest grew a bit colder, but he nodded. She nodded too.
“Well then...” she paused, taking a breath the way Auntie did when she had to tell Dudley there was no chocolate left. “I need to tell you that... that you’ve died, Harry. You are dead.”
“I’m dead?” Harry repeated back in question. She nodded. “Oh...”
But it wasn’t a sad ‘oh;. His mummy and daddy were dead too. And if he was dead that meant he could finally see them. Warmth shot through Harry as he smiled so hard his cheeks hurt. He was going to see his mummy and daddy.
“Then, where are they?” he exclaimed, looking around like they might suddenly appear out of nowhere.
Apparently Helena had not been expecting this question, her brow furrowed and her head tilted slightly.
“Where are who?”
“Mummy! And Daddy! I want to see them! They are dead too!”
It all made sense. His mummy and daddy had really come to save him! His wish had been granted! They were coming! His mummy and daddy were coming to get him! And they’d give him a big hug! And play with him! And give him more hugs!
“Harry, have you ever seen your parents since they died?”
Harry giggled. What a silly question, of course not. They were dead. But now he was dead too. So they’d be here somewhere.
“No, but they died too. Where are they?”
Helena frowned, but Harry ignored that. Wriggling around until she set him back on the floor. He raced to the door, and went straight through it. Finding himself in a huge open corridor. It was empty, but that didn’t stop him. He was going to see them! Finally see them!
“MUMMY?!” he called out as loud as he could, running up the hall and searching everything he could see. “DADDY?!”
There were lots of doors, and lots of paintings on the walls, even strange knights in armour like from Dudley’s movies. The paintings seemed to be moving, but Harry brushed that off. If he was dead then, maybe that was normal? Besides, he didn’t care. He was looking for his mummy and daddy!
“MUMMY, I’M HERE!! WHERE ARE YOU AND DADDY?!”
The strange people in the paintings stared, whispering as he ran past, but Harry didn’t care. He was about to give his mummy and daddy a big hug!
“Harry!?”
For a moment Harry thought it could be his mummy calling out to him, but when he turned, he saw it was Helena. She was right behind him. And she didn’t look happy at all. Why?
“What is it?” he asked, itching to turn and start running again. He was even more excited than the time auntie got him his very own new pair of socks!
“Harry,” she whispered, looking sad again. She crouched down, and grabbed his hands. “Harry, I don’t think your mother and father are here.”
The words didn’t make sense. They were just sounds, like Uncle Vernon’s shouting when it became a blur of noise. The warm, happy feeling in Harry’s chest didn’t vanish; it just… stalled. It froze solid, a hard, cold lump behind his ribs.
No. Helena was wrong. She just didn’t know. She didn’t know who his mummy and daddy were. If Harry was dead, then they were all dead, so they had to be here too. That's how it worked. That’s how the teacher at school said heaven worked. They were here... they had to be...
Harry pressed his brows together angrily, and yanked, trying to break himself free of Helena’s hands. But it was too firm, he couldn’t get free.
“No!” he spat. “Mummy and daddy are dead! And if I died and I’m here, then they are in this dead place too!”
Harry pulled again, throwing himself back with all his might, but it made no difference. Helena still wouldn’t let go.
“Harry, this isn’t a dead place. This is still the land of the living. You’re a ghost and if your parents have never visited you as ghosts before, they won’t be here. They would have... passed on. They’re gone.”
Passed on... gone... won’t be here... gone... gone... gone...
She may as well have slapped him squared across the face.
“NO!” Harry screamed, so raw it hurt his throat. He yanked his hands and stomped his feet. That was not true. His mummy and daddy had to be here! They had to be! “LIAR!”
“Harry, I’m sorry. I know this is-”
“NO! THEY ARE HERE! THEY ARE HERE! PLEASE! I WANT TO SEE THEM!”
Harry argued, insisting even as tears began to spill over, that it wasn’t true. Even as whatever warmth left inside him was being sucked away, replaced with aching dread. Hollowing out everything that made Harry, Harry. Shredding his heart and ripping what was left into tiny little pieces. Harry fought and screamed. Calling her a liar and begging her to tell him the truth.
But she wouldn’t back down or take her claims back. No matter what he did. And maybe, somewhere deep down inside, Harry knew she was telling the truth. But he couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t
Harry couldn’t bring himself to believe that even in death his parents were gone. Harry never got to be happy in his whole entire life. Harry was used to being disappointed. He was used to only getting the negatives and never any of the positives. He was always let down. Promises were only ever made to be broken, and hope was always crushed eventually.
How was he meant to accept that now he was finally dead like his mummy and daddy, that they still weren’t here, and he was still alone.