~ chapter one: the letters from no one ~
before i start actually writing this chapter, i need to tell you all something about the plot itself.
like i stated before, the plot will loosely follow the storyline of the original harry potter series, but of course, this is a yandere story, meaning that there will be yandere actions. i will change some events so that this story will make more sense.
and I know most x readers have e/c for the eyes, but in this story the reader will have green eyes.
"Up! Get up, now!"
Y/N Black groaned as she rubbed the sleepiness out of her eyes and blinked a couple of times. Woken up at six in the morning by a grumpy orphanage manager who couldn't care less about the children was not her idea of fun, but she'd be lucky to get food today if she didn't wake up.
"Are you up yet?"
"Nearly," she managed to get out.
"Well, get up quickly, unless you want to starve."
With that, the orphanage manager walked away as Y/N heard him stomp down the stairs.
She lay there on her back for a few more seconds. Kids on their birthdays, usually would have a special party dedicated to them that was either organized by the parents or the kids themselves. She would get nothing of the sort.
She had been one when she had been dropped off on the orphanage's doorstep. All Mr. Brunson told her was that her mother was dead. He gave no clues as to her father's whereabouts or even if he was alive at all. Of course, she wouldn't be surprised if Mr. Brunson knew but simply didn't care to tell her where her father was; it wouldn't be the first time.
She had nobody to discuss the matter with, since she didn't have many friends at the orphanage. The only good thing about the orphanage, in fact, was the fact that Mr. Brunson would let the kids go out on walks. He didn't give them a specific curfew; but perhaps that was because he simply just didn't care to check that all of the kids were there. Hell, Y/N suspected she could be out until midnight and Mr. Brunson still wouldn't notice. It made the orphanage a little bit more tolerable - not much, but it was a little bit more tolerable than it would have been if she was cramped up in the orphanage all day.
Mr. Brunson was a cranky man; he had thinning gray hair even though he was only 31 and watery blue squinty eyes. None of the kids didn't know much about him; Y/N didn't know much about him either. However, something she did know was that Mr. Brunson hated children.
Correction: he only hated her.
Sometimes Mr. Brunson made her so mad that she just wanted to...
She caught sight of herself in the mirror. Her eyes were doing that again. They were flickering from sea green to red.
Sighing, she got out of bed and walked to her closet to get ready for the day. She only hoped that she would be able to go out for a walk after breakfast. She picked out her clothes for the day, walked back to the bed, spread her clothes out on the bed, and walked to the bathroom to shower. One of the only good things about the orphanage were that each rooms had their own bathrooms.
After she'd finished showering, she peeked out of the bathroom door and made sure her bedroom door was locked, and walked out of the bathroom as fast as she could, and quickly changed into her new clothes. They were comfortable enough.
Y/N wasn't excited to go downstairs, but she knew that she had to go downstairs if she wanted breakfast today, so she reluctantly opened the bedroom door and walked out.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
All of the other kids seemed to be downstairs enjoying breakfast, thank god. I wasn't in the mood to be teased when I had just walked out of my room.
I spent as much time as I could out the orphanage, only returning for lunch, dinner, and when I felt like going to bed.
As I made my way to the stairs, I stopped and waited to see if any of the other kids would point me out and make fun of me, but they didn't. Thank God for that.
None of the kids seemed to notice me, not even when I sat down at the very end of the table, which none of the other kids wanted to sit near since I was the one that usually sat in that seat. Not that I wanted anybody to sit near me - nobody in this orphanage was worth my time.
As the chef put down my breakfast (which happened to be a piece of French toast), I nodded a thanks to her. I didn't assume many kids said thanks to her, more or less acknowledge her existence, so I thought it'd be nice to show her some respect.
I was the first one to finish my breakfast, which didn't shock me, seeing as how everyone was socializing more than eating. Not wanting to spend a second longer in this hellhole than I had to, I quickly put my plate in the sink and started walking to the front door of the orphanage, ignoring the judgmental whispers and stares that people had now started.
As I swung open the front door of the orphanage, I smiled with satisfaction as I stepped out of the orphanage and closed the door behind me. Finally. Freedom.
I walked down the steps and walked along the sidewalk as I watched cars pass by me. Boy, did it feel good to get out of that orphanage...
I just wish I could run away, and then no more Mr. Brunson. No more teasing.
I stopped in my tracks.
Running away.
That was it! That was the answer! I had to run away!
Mr. Brunson wouldn't give a damn if I was gone or not. He wouldn't even notice!
It was perfect!
I turned around and made a dash back for the orphanage, excited, for the first time in my life, to get there. Then, as I was about to climb the steps, I looked back at the mailbox behind me, and remembered with disappointment that it was my turn to get the mail.
I had nothing against getting the mail; it was actually, strangely enough, one of my favorite chores to do - as it was the most tolerable chore. It was nothing like taking out the trash; that was my least favorite chore to do.
I sighed, turned, and dashed back down the stairs, ready to get the job done as soon as possible so I could start packing my things. Some kids were outside now, much to my disappointment, but the teasing hadn't started yet, which was good - I wasn't in the mood for teasing right about now, but then again, when was I ever?
I reached inside the mailbox to get the letters, and then extracted my hand that had a ton of letters clutched in it. I turned my back to the mailbox so I could sort through the letters, like I sometimes do, just in case someone who happens to be my long-lost relatives has sent me a letter or something. I don't know why - I don't have any living relatives, as far as I'm concerned; I'm an orphan. I won't get out of this hellhole until I turn eighteen, seeing as how nobody wants to adopt me.
I was just about to give up when I put another letter in the back of the pile and my eyes widened.
It was an envelope for me.
An envelope addressed to Y/N Black.
I pinched myself, to make sure I wasn't dreaming, and I blinked a few times, but there was no mistaking it:
Ms. F/I. Black
The Orphanage
Melody Street
Little Whinging
Surrey
The envelope was thick and heavy, made out of yellowish parchment, and the address was written in emerald-green ink. There was no stamp - which struck me as weird. Every envelope came with some sort of stamp, right?
With shaking hands, I turned the envelope over. The envelope had a purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms; a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake surrounding a large H in the middle.
No way. This isn't real.
"Mr. Brunson! Mr. Brunson! She's got a letter!"
Crud.
I whirled around to see who had ratted me out, and not surprisingly, it was Sadie Castawell, the girl who I had managed to become enemies with on her first day here - and who Mr. Brunson favored over everyone else. I still remembered the day we became enemies as if it were yesterday; she had walked up to me and made some snarky comment about... I don't really remember what it was about. It might've been about my hair; it might've been about my clothes. I don't remember, and I don't care. So I just slapped her in the face and told her some things that a nine-year-old at the time should not have told someone. That had gotten me the worst punishment yet, but it was so worth it.
I rolled my eyes as Mr. Brunson stormed out of the orphanage. Somehow, he always seemed to know who she was referring to when she said "she" - although the fact that she always called other kids by their names except for me (excluding the rare occasion that she did say my name) could have also contributed.
Mr. Brunson didn't even ask to see the envelope - he just snatched it out of my hand.
"Hey!" I snapped. "That's mine!"
Mr. Brunson seemed to find this simply hilarious, and oh, how I wished I could just slap him right then and there. "Yours? Child, nobody would be writing t-" His eyes widened, and his expression changed from a mocking expression to one of shock and - could it be horror? - on his face as he started rapidly muttering "No, no" and running into the orphanage with the envelope clutched in his hands.
I started after him, with Sadie right on my trail, both of us yelling to see the envelope - me yelling because it belonged to me, and Sadie yelling because she wanted to see the envelope for no reason at all. But it was already too late - as we got into the living room, Mr. Brunson had already taken the letter out, torn it apart and was throwing the pieces into the flames.
"Hey!" I protested, rushing forward. "That was mine!"
"It was a mistake," Mr. Brunson replied, dusting his hands off as he threw the last shreds of parchment into the flames. "Different Y/N Black."
"Really?" I pressed.
"Yes! Now go to your room! Both of you! Go to your rooms! You are not to leave your rooms unless it is for any meals!"
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Y/N's plans to run away were foiled, as Mr. Brunson had taken her backpack and locked it away somewhere only he knew. So much for that idea. That's not going to be a problem at all.
"But, Mr. Brunson," Sadie was complaining. "It's Sunday."
Y/N's heart gave a sudden jolt. She might be mistaken, of course, but if today was Sunday, then in about a week, it would be her birthday. Her eleventh birthday, at that. Her heart always gave a sudden jolt when it was about a week from her birthday. Why, she didn't know.
She yawned and lay back down on her bed. She was certain that it hadn't been the wrong person, but now that the letter was gone, there was no way she could prove it. If only it hadn't been for stupid Sadie, she could've figured out what the letter had been about.
Perhaps it had been a long-lost relative of hers, telling her to expect them at some point in the future, but now that Mr. Brunson had burned the letter, she had no way of knowing when to expect them.
Sometimes they made her so angry she just wanted to...
Once again, she caught a glimpse of herself on her bedside mirror as her breathing got heavier. As her breathing got heavier, her eyes flickered from green to red more frequently. She didn't bother to calm herself down, her eyes fixated on the mirror as her breathing got much heavier and sharper than it had ever been.
When it had finally gotten to the point where it would freak out any individuals passing her room, she closed her eyes, took a deep breath in, and breathed out. She opened her eyes just enough to see that she was calm enough to the point where her eyes were back to normal.
Weird. She frowned and closed her eyes again. Maybe a nap would help her calm down completely.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Mr. Brunson had been passing by the girl's room when he had heard her breathing heavy. He assumed that she must be tired; she must've had a long run before she had taken out the mail, he thought. Yes, that was it. But as the breathing got heavier, Mr. Brunson's nonchalant expression turned into one of confusion. Surely the girl hadn't run for that long, had she? He pressed an ear to the door to hear the breathing more clearly, but as the breathing got heavier still, he could feel his heart thumping more rapidly.
Then, when the breathing had become its heaviest and sharpest, a few seconds passed before it returned back to normal.
The man put a hand on his chest where his heart was, feeling his heartbeat slowly come back to normal. He wasn't exactly sure why his heart had been beating fast in the first place; there was nothing that seemed to be out of the ordinary with the girl, but she was one of them. Who knew what else she could do?
Perhaps if he had just written back and told them that he didn't want her to attend...
He shook his head. No, that wouldn't do. They'd find a way to send her there, anyway.
He made his way down to the telephone across the hall and dialed a number before lifting the receiver to his ear. The telephone rung for a few seconds before the person on the other end picked up, and he was greeted by a woman's voice on the other end. "Darrel?"
"Yes, hello, Petunia," Mr. Brunson greeted. "I just wanted to check in with you; how have you been?"
"The thing that I've been dreading has happened, Darrel," the voice that unmistakably belonged to Petunia Dursley replied in a shaky tone. "The boy got his letter."
"Yes, I'm afraid the girl did as well," Mr. Brunson said in a grim tone. "Well, all we can do is not reply to any of the letters - perhaps even get rid of them, if we can - and hope that they stop."
"But what if that's not enough?"
"It has to be, Petunia. It has to be. They're going to be normal kids. That's all they're going to be."
"I see." Petunia's voice sounded stiff. "Shall we meet up for coffee? Perhaps you'd like to see Dudley?"
"I'd be delighted to see Dudley again, Petunia. It's been a while since I've last seen him."
"Ah yes, well, I assume it has been a while, you haven't seen him since last January, and my precious Dudley has taken quite a liking to you," Petunia said, all stiffness gone from her voice and now replaced with fondness for her son.
Mr. Brunson was also quite fond of her son; he could be quite cordial at times. "Very well. We shall meet at the same place at the same time."
He hung up the phone and went to his room to get ready.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
As I heard footsteps running past my room and down the stairs, I opened the door a crack to see Mr. Brunson fancily dressed, his car keys jingling as he ran out the front door.
I raised an eyebrow as I opened the door wider. Mr. Brunson didn't head out of the orphanage very often. What was the occasion?
I rushed to my window to see Mr. Brunson getting in his car and closing the car door behind him before starting it up and driving away.
As I watched the car turn a corner and disappear, a thought occurred to me - one that brought a smile to my face.
I could just get my stuff...
...if I knew where Mr. Brunson put it.
I didn't waste any time as I ran out of my room and raced for Mr. Brunson's room to look for my stuff. It just seemed like the most logical place to look for my things first.
I tried the door, and, not surprisingly, it was locked.
That just proves my stuff is in there. Why else would he have locked up his room?
I reached inside my pocket and extracted a spare bobby pin that I had found a few months ago while cleaning the orphanage's attic. I knew how to lock pick from watching some prison shows on TV; I very rarely got to watch the TV, but when I did get the chance, I always turned on some prison shows, because maybe I could learn some skills that would help me one day.
I stuck the bobby pin into the lock while looking around for Sadie or any other snitches that liked to spy on me whenever they thought I was breaking some rules, but it looked like the hall was clear. After a few moments of me picking the lock, I extracted the bobby pin and reached for the door handle with my free hand, giving it a push.
The door swung open.
"Bingo," I muttered, stuffing the bobby pin back into my pocket and walking into the room, closing the door quietly behind me.
Now time to look for my stuff.
Which wasn't going to be easy, since there were a billion places where Mr. Brunson could have put my stuff.
"For fuck's sake," I muttered to myself as I crouched down to look underneath the bed, which by the way was huge: bigger than any of the other kids' beds, that was for sure.
I must've spent at least half an hour picking locks and searching all of the hiding places where all my stuff could be.
That was when, as I opened the last hiding place my things could be, I found a piece of paper that had something written on it. Curiosity, naturally, got the better of me, and I reached inside and took the paper out to read it. It was definitely written by Mr. Brunson: I recognized that messy handwriting anywhere.
That damn school sent me a letter telling the girl to go to them to learn the same things that Lily and James did when they went there. The school staff won't be able to keep her safe. I know what she and that boy have to do. Quite frankly, I don't trust them. She won't be safe there. She's safe here. Unhappy, but safe. Maybe if I don't respond, they'll stop sending the envelopes.
"What the...?" I muttered to myself, dropping the piece of paper and letting it fall to the floor as my arm dropped to my side.
Who were Lily and James?
What school was Mr. Brunson talking about?
And did it have anything to do with me?
I took a step backward and made a dash for the door, swinging it open and running for my room, desperate to be alone so I could collect my own thoughts.
I locked the door behind me and leaned on it, my hand on my chest where my heart was, breathing heavily.
I walked to my bookshelf and picked out a book to read, then walked to my bed, snuggled in the sheets, and started to read. Maybe a good book would get my mind off of the paper.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The Dursleys' house had four bedrooms: one for Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, one for visitors (usually Uncle Vernon's sister, Aunt Marge), one where Dudley slept, and one where Dudley kept all the toys and things that wouldn't fit into his first bedroom. It only took me one trip upstairs to move everything I owned from the cupboard to this room. I sat down on the bed and looked around. Nearly everything in this room was broken; the month-old video camera was lying on top of a small, working tank Dudley had once driven over the next door neighbor's dog; in the corner was his first-ever television set, which he'd put his foot through when his favorite program had been canceled; there was a large birdcage, which once had a parrot Dudley had swapped at school for a real air rifle, which was up on a shelf with the end all bent because Dudley had sat on it. The other shelves were full of books. They were the only things in the room that looked as though they'd never been touched. I wasn't very surprised; Dudley had never been a big reader.
From downstairs came the sound of Dudley bawling at his mother, "I don't want him there... I need that room... make him get out...."
It'd been years since he'd actually cried, and I knew it; we both knew that if he screwed his face up and wailed, he'd usually get anything he wanted, but that wasn't the case this time.
I sighed and stretched out on the bed. Yesterday I would've given anything to be up here. Today I felt as if I'd rather be down in the cupboard with that letter than up here without it.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Next morning at breakfast, everything was rather quiet. Dudley was in shock. He'd screamed, whacked Uncle Vernon with his Smelting stick, been sick on purpose, kicked Aunt Petunia, and even thrown his tortoise on the greenhouse roof, and he still didn't have his room back. I was thinking about yesterday, and how I bitterly wished I'd opened the letter in the hall. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia kept sharing dark glances.
What I would've given to find out what was in that envelope that made them freak out like that.
When the mail arrived, Uncle Vernon, who seemed to be trying to be extra nice to me, made Dudley go get it. We heard him banging things with his Smelting stick all the way down the hall. Then he shouted, "There's another one! 'Mr. H. Potter, The Smallest Bedroom, 4 Privet Drive-"
Aunt Petunia made a strangled noise and clapped her hand over her mouth. Then she squeaked, "I'm going to call Darrel right now!" Then she ran towards the telephone to dial Darrel's number - whatever it was.
I didn't have much time to think about who Darrel really was, as with a strangled cry, Uncle Vernon leapt from his seat and tore down the hall, with me right behind him. Uncle Vernon had to wrestle Dudley to the ground to get the letter from him, which was made difficult by the fact that I had grabbed Uncle Vernon around the neck from behind. After a few minutes of confused wrestling, in which everybody got hit quite a lot with the Smelting stick, Uncle Vernon straightened up, gasping for breath, with, to my major disappointment, my letter clutched in his hand.
"Go to your cupboard - I mean, your bedroom," he wheezed at me. "Dudley - go - just go."
For the first time in our lives, Dudley and I exchanged glances that said the same thing, and we went to our rooms.
I walked round and round my new room. Somebody knew that I had moved out of my cupboard and they seemed to know I hadn't gotten the original letter. Surely, they were going to try again? And this time, I'd make sure that I'd get my hands on that letter for sure. I had a plan.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The alarm clock that I'd repaired rang at six o'clock the next morning. Quickly and stealthily, I turned it off and got dressed. I couldn't wake up any of the Dursleys or else this whole plan would flop. I made my way downstairs without turning on any of the lights.
I was going to wait for the postman on the corner of Privet Drive and get the letters for number four first. That way, I could finally get my hands on that letter and see who was writing to me so much. My heart hammered as I crept across the dark hall toward the front door-
"AAAAARRRGH!"
I leapt into the air out of surprise; I'd trodden on something big and squashy. And I - to my horror - recognized that voice.
Lights flipped on, and I realized that I'd trodden on Uncle Vernon's face. He had been lying at the foot of the front door in a sleeping bag, clearly making sure I wasn't doing what I'd been trying to do. He shouted at me for half an hour before telling me to go make a cup of tea. Miserably I shuffled into the kitchen and by the time I got back, the mail had arrived right into Uncle Vernon's lap. I could see three letters addressed in green ink.
"I want my letter" was what I was planning to say at that moment, but I had only gotten as far as "I want-" before my uncle was tearing them up right in front of my eyes.
Uncle Vernon didn't go to work that day. He stayed at home and nailed up the mail slot.
"See," he explained to Aunt Petunia through a mouthful of nails, "if they can't deliver them they'll just give up."
"I'm not sure that'll work, Vernon."
"Oh, these people's minds work in strange ways, Petunia, they're not like you and me," Uncle Vernon said, trying to knock in a nail with the piece of fruitcake Aunt Petunia had just brought in. "You'd best tell Darrel to nail up the mail slot outside of the orphanage as well."
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
On Friday, about twelve letters or more arrived for me. As they couldn't go through the mail slot they had been pushed under the door, slotted through the sides, and a few even forced through the small window in the downstairs bathroom.
Once again Uncle Vernon stayed at home. After burning all the letters, he got out a hammer and nails and boarded up the cracks around the front and back doors so no one could go out. He bummed "Tiptoe Through the Tulips" as he worked, and jumped at small noises. At this point I was wondering if I would ever get my letter.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Saturday was when things began to get out of hand. Twenty four letters to me found their way into the house, rolled up and hidden inside each of the two dozen eggs that our very confused milkman had handed Aunt Petunia through the living room window. While Uncle Vernon made furious telephone calls to the post office and the dairy trying to find someone to complain to, Aunt Petunia shredded the letters in her food processor and made a call of her own after Uncle Vernon had finished using the telephone - to Darrel, most probably.
"Who on earth wants to talk to you this badly?" Dudley asked me in amazement.
I shrugged.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
On Sunday morning, Uncle Vernon sat down at the breakfast table looking tired and very ill, but happy.
"No post on Sundays," he reminded us cheerfully as he spread marmalade on his newspapers, "no damn letters today-"
But boy, oh boy was he wrong.
Something came whizzing down the kitchen chimney as he spoke and caught him sharply on the back of the head. The next moment, thirty or fourth letters came pelting out of the fireplace like bullets. The Dursleys ducked, but I leapt into the air trying to catch one.
"Out! OUT!"
Uncle Vernon seized me around the waist and threw me into the hall. When Aunt Petunia and Dudley had run out with their arms over their faces, Uncle Vernon slammed the door shut, although I could still hear the letters still streaming into the room, bouncing off the walls and floor.
"That does it," said Uncle Vernon, trying to speak calmly but pulling great tufts out of his mustache at the same time. "I want you all back here in five minutes ready to leave. We're going away. Just pack some clothes. No arguments!"
He looked so dangerous with half his mustache missing that no one dared argue. Ten minutes later we had wrenched our way through the boarded-up doors and were speeding towards the highway.
Dudley was sniffling in the back seat; Uncle Vernon had hit him round the head for holding them up while he tried to pack his television, VCR, and computer in his sports bag.
We drove. And we drove. Even Aunt Petunia didn't dare ask where we were going. Every now and then Uncle Vernon would take a sharp turn and drive in the opposite direction for a while.
"Shake 'em off... shake 'em off," he would mutter whenever he did this.
We didn't stop to eat or drink all day. By nightfall Dudley was howling. He'd never had such a bad day in his life. He was hungry, he's missed five television programs he'd wanted to see, and he'd never gone so long without blowing up an alien on his computer.
Finally, Uncle Vernon stopped at last outside a gloomy-looking hotel on the outskirts of a big city. As we hopped out, I saw a girl with a grumpy-looking man waiting for us.
"Darrel!" Aunt Petunia said with relief in her voice, and rushed to talk to him as the girl walked up to me.
"Same situation?" she asked, and my face heated up as I stared at her. She was beautiful - even more beautiful than any of the girls I'd ever seen.
"Yeah," I managed to say.
"Y/N Black," the girl replied, sticking her hand out for a handshake.
"Harry, Harry Potter," I replied, sticking my hand out and grasping hers. Her hand felt warm, and I couldn't help but let a smile creep across my face for the first time today. Maybe, if I was spending the night with her, it wouldn't be quite so bad after all.
Y/N and I shared a room with twin beds with damp, musty sheets, to my delight. I wouldn't be sharing a room with Dudley tonight.
"Ugh," she said, wrinkling her nose at the smell. She looked out the window and walked toward it, sitting on the windowsill. "At least the view's beautiful out here."
"Yeah," I replied, walking over and sitting next to her.
That's not the only thing that's beautiful, though, I thought, but didn't dare say. Scaring her away wasn't ideal, so I just smiled.
God, am I falling in love with her already?
We sat there in silence for a few minutes before I turned my head to look at her. "Did you manage to open your letter?"
"No," Y/N said, shaking her head. She clenched her teeth and fists. "Snitch Sadie snitched before I could."
"Snitch Sadie?" I asked, amused.
"Well, her real name is Sadie Castawell, but I like calling her Snitch Sadie."
And you're m̶i̶n̶e̶ funny too, I thought to myself dreamily.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Y/N and Harry spent countless hours joking and talking, and just getting to know each other. Even though they had just met hours before, Y/N felt like she'd known Harry her whole life. The fact that someone else was in the same situation as her made her feel a little bit better about not being able to get her hands on one of those letters, but it didn't completely erase the thought from her mind.
"If they didn't give up then, they won't give up now," Harry told her, giving her the impression that he could read her mind. He reached for her hand. "Don't worry."
Y/N smiled at him, and Harry made a mental note of getting her to smile more often. She looked absolutely radical when she smiled.
"Your smile's really pretty."
"R-really? You think so?"
Harry nodded. "You should smile more often. It looks good on you."
Y/N's smile got even bigger, if that was possible. She looked more radiant than ever, if that was also possible.
But then again, she probably always looked radiant.
Harry knew one thing for certain at that moment.
S̶h̶e̶ w̶a̶s̶ g̶o̶i̶n̶g̶ t̶o̶ b̶e̶ h̶i̶s̶,̶ o̶n̶e̶ w̶a̶y̶ o̶r̶ a̶n̶o̶t̶h̶e̶r̶.̶
She was absolutely stunning.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
They ate stale cornflakes and cold tinned tomatoes on toast for breakfast the next day. They had just finished when the owner of the hotel came over to their table.
"'Scuse me, but is one of you Mr. H. Potter or Ms. F/I. Black? Only I got about an 'undred of these at the front desk."
She held up two letters so they could read the green ink address:
Mr. H. Potter and Ms. F/I. Black
Room 17
Railview Hotel
Cokeworth
Harry and Y/N shared a glance, and they made a grab for the letters before Mr. Brunson swatted Y/N's hand out of the way as Uncle Vernon did the same to Harry. The woman stared.
"I'll take them," said Uncle Vernon, standing up quickly and following her from the dining room.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"Wouldn't it be better just to go home, dear?" Aunt Petunia suggested timidly, hours later, but Uncle Vernon didn't hear her. Exactly what he was looking for, none of them knew. He drove them into the middle of a forest, got out, looked around, shook his head, got back in the car, and off they went again. The same thing happened in the middle of a plowed field, halfway across a suspension bridge, and at the top of a multilevel parking garage Mr. Brunson's car was right behind theirs the whole time, but Harry was just miserably looking out of the window, wishing Y/N was there with him. Perhaps then this car ride would be at least a bit more tolerable.
"Daddy's gone mad, hasn't he?" Dudley asked Aunt Petunia dully late that afternoon. Uncle Vernon had parked at the coast, locked them all inside the car, and disappeared.
It started to rain. Great drops beat on the roof of the car. Dudley sniffled.
"It's Monday," he told his mother. "The Great Humberto's on tonight. I want to stay somewhere with a television."
Monday. This reminded Harry of something. If it was Monday - and you could usually count on Dudley to know the days of the week, because of television - then tomorrow, Tuesday, was Harry's eleventh birthday. This realization led him to wonder when Y/N's birthday was, since she looked the same age as him. Suddenly he was interested to know as much as he could about her; what her favorite food was, if she played any sports and which ones, what she liked to do in her spare time. Stuff like that.
It was funny how interested he was to know everything about her all because Dudley had brought up today was Monday.
For the first time since they'd left, Harry was glad that they had - because that had brought him and Y/N together. But even if they hadn't, perhaps she would have gone to the same secondary school he would have went to. Perhaps they would have met there.
But if she had been going to the same secondary school as he was, it was more ideal to meet now than on the first day at secondary school. At least then when he started school, he'd see a familiar face around.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
I HATE HIM
I HATE HIM
I HATE HIM
I HATE HIM
I HATE HIM
I HATE HIM
Harry screamed in his mind over and over as he watched his snoring cousin with rage in his eyes.
Uncle Vernon had managed to find a hut for them to stay in, and before he had gone to sleep, Dudley had flirted with Y/N.
Right in front of Harry.
Harry just stared at him, his fists clenched and his teeth gritted.
Who does he think he is?!
She's... well... Y/N, and he's a pig!
"Harry?"
His fists relaxed and his hard glare softened as he turned to face Y/N. "Yeah?"
"Are you okay?"
'No, I'm not.'
"Yeah I am, but are you okay?" he asked her softly.
'Because if you aren't, I will not hesitate to-'
"Harry." Y/N gently grasped one of his hands, and his face heated up. "I'm fine."
"Great." Harry allowed himself to smile before remembering the question he'd wanted to ask her. "When's your birthday?"
Y/N peeked at the lighted dial of Dudley's watch, which was dangling over the edge of the sofa on his fat wrist. "In eleven minutes."
Harry struggled to hold in his excitement that they had the same birthday.
It was like they were soulmates.
They watched as their birthday ticked nearer, and Harry wondered if the Dursleys would remember at all, wondering where the letter writer was now as Y/N was wondering whether Mr. Brunson would remember. She then remembered the last thing Dudley had said to her that night.
"My cousin's crazy, by the way."
Y/N didn't think Harry seemed the type that was 'crazy' - he really seemed like a good guy. Her dislike for Dudley was growing more by the second.
Five minutes to go. Harry heard something creak outside. He hoped the roof wasn't going to fall in, although he might be warmer if it did; the hut was cold. He scooted closer to Y/N trying to get warmer; she didn't seem to mind, as she also scooted closer to him. Four minutes to go. Perhaps the orphanage would be so full of letters when Y/N and Mr. Brunson returned that she'd be able to grab one somehow.
Three minutes to go. Was that the sea, slapping hard on the rock like that? And (two minutes to go) what was that funny crunching noise? Was the rock crumbling into the sea?
One minute to go and they'd be eleven. Thirty seconds... twenty... ten... nine - maybe Harry would wake Dudley up, he thought to himself, just to annoy him - three... two... one...
BOOM.
The whole shack shivered and the two sat bolt upright, staring at the door. Someone was outside, knocking to come in.