Birthday

Harry's birthday, for once, was marked by the Dursleys. Or one Dursley, at least: Uncle Vernon barged into Harry's room around eight AM, a piece of paper in hand, and thrust it towards him.

It had been a week since Aunt Petunia had taken Vernon to the hospital, and since then he had been even more bad-tempered than usual. Petunia was fussing over his meals, and every time Vernon spotted Harry and started fuming about his wretched existence or assigning more chores, she would swoop in and cut the tirade off before he could well and truly work himself up. Not out of goodness to Harry, of course, but because the doctor had told Vernon to avoid stress.

Harry still wasn't sure how long she'd known he'd been going to the Ellis's place. He wasn't about to bring it up, either.

"What's that?" Harry asked, closing his book, keeping it—and himself—safely out of his Uncle's reach as he stood up.

"An application," Vernon said, pronouncing the word clearly. "Petunia's heard from that friend of hers that runs the Tesco on Magnolia Road, and now that you are of the legal age—" He looked down at Harry scornfully, as though doubtful that anything about Harry could possibly be legal. "—it's about time you went out and got yourself a job."

"A what?" Harry looked down at the sheet of paper, and indeed found it was a form with the Tesco logo printed in a corner.

"A job," Vernon repeated. "Where they pay you to do work—not that you've done a good day's work in your life, but you'll bloody well fill that out and take it to the store and start earning your keep."

"Earning my keep?" Harry echoed, failing to mask his incredulity. Aside from Petunia, he was the only one who did any work around the house, and he did a good deal more than her, besides.

"Paying rent!" Vernon snarled. "And for food—and those ruddy— shoes—"

Harry had been going through something of a growth spurt recently, which was to say he'd grown an inch since the start of summer. His feet had finally grown large enough that five days ago, while Harry was weeding in the garden, wondering if he should just take his shoes off for how tight they squeezed him, they had burst apart at the seams. Dudley, home for the summer, had laughed and laughed at them, which was probably the only reason why Petunia hadn't gotten more angry. But she had ordered him back out into the garden, feeling ridiculous in the summer sun in a pair of old rain boots, and come back from the store a few days later with not only a pair of trainers but also a pair of black leather school shoes, second hand but perfectly serviceable, and with only little bit of scuffing on the toe that he could probably hide if he dared knick some of Vernon's shoe shine.

If it had been anyone else charging the nephew left in their care for a pair of second-hand shoes, Harry would have thought it ridiculous. Instead, he looked down the paper and ran some quick calculations in his head. "How much?" he asked.

"What?"

"How much do I need to pay?" Harry asked. "For the room. If I've got a job, I can get myself food, and clothes, and things."

Vernon scowled but seemed to realize it would work out more in his favor. It took a minute of his eyes darting back and forth to decide on a figure. "Twenty-five pounds per week," he decided. "And you'll still help Petunia with the cooking."

Harry frowned; he didn't know how much a job would pay, or what was reasonable to pay for rent if you weren't stuck living with the Dursleys. He hoped more than twenty-five pounds. "I'll need a bank account," he said cautiously. "For the check."

Vernon's nostrils flared, but again, he seemed to find the request more in his interest than not. Or maybe he was just minding his temper—Harry would have no chance of getting a job with a black eye or clear limp. "Ask your aunt," he grunted. "And get downstairs. Marge's train is in at ten, and I want that grass trimmed before she arrives."

"Aunt Marge?" Harry echoed, eyes widening. He'd managed to forget all about her visit, after great effort. She wasn't really his aunt, being Vernon's sister, but she was just as horrible as one, and she usually came with her dogs, or at least Ripper, her favorite, who seemed to hate Harry as much as Harry feared him. It was the teeth. Harry had white ghosts of them imprinted on his right ankle, from when he was nine or ten. She hadn't visited the past few years, too obsessed with her dogs to visit long at Privet Drive, and Harry wasn't looking forward to her return… especially since it meant he would be expected to be home. Now that Petunia knew about Sam's place, he couldn't just run off to hide there.

"Do I have to repeat everything I say?" Vernon snarled. "Get out there and mow that lawn, and turn in that paper to Tesco, too! I had better hear about a job at dinner tonight!"

-

Vernon did hear about a job at dinner that night, which came as something of a surprise since Gordon's mum had said she'd think about it for a few days, and maybe put him on trial first. But the phone rang just as Harry was dishing potatoes in a heap onto Marge's plate, and Petunia picked it up. She seemed surprised to be hearing from Gordon's mum—Mrs Lindsay, he reminded himself, that was her name—but she'd given the phone over to Harry quick enough.

Five minutes later Harry had a job. Vanessa Lindsay had broken her ankle at football practice, so she needed someone to fill her spot in. He was going to be paid £3.25 per hour, and he could only work twenty-five hours a week over the holidays, twelve during the school year, and only two on Sundays, but that was still more than the £25 per week Vernon was demanding, and more than the £20 note Marge had given Dudley earlier, and Marge was only here for a week besides. Harry had some more papers to come in and fill out the next morning ( after Church, dear) and he would start on Monday.

"Well," Marge said, eyeing him. "Can't imagine hiring an ungrateful brat like you, but you must be doing something right, Vernon, to make him presentable... Of course, Tesco is the only sort of work someone like you could ever do—what was it you said that Potter did?"

Despite the insults, Harry perked up. The Dursleys never talked about Harry's parents, if they could avoid it, even if his mother had been Petunia's sister. Any information he could get was like finding a gold nugget in a dog's shit.

"He, er…" said Vernon, suddenly coughing into his brandy. "Nothing. He was unemployed."

"Well," said Marge, and settled back into her seat (which groaned, under the bulk of her). "That's what I've said. A no-good drunk, wasn't he, no wonder. And your sister, too, Petunia; of course, you turned out alright… What was the name of that town you were from? Before London?"

"Cokeworth," Petunia said. "But it isn't worth mentioning at all."

"That's it, that's just it, isn't it? You took it upon yourself to choose the right place in society, not that you belonged somewhere like that to begin with. And, of course, you made fine choices with our dear Vernon here. Not like your sister, who ran off with that Potter . Of course nothing good would come of that..."

Harry clenched his teeth and carried the potatoes back into the kitchen, giving Ripper the bulldog a wide berth, and began running through the first few lines of the periodic table in his head. It wouldn't be any use trying to listen in on the conversation if she was just going to repeat the usual swill.

-

The following day, he went back to Tesco, his school shirt and trousers still damp, not having had enough time to dry. Mrs Lindsay was behind the counter and had to ring up six customers before she was able to get away, leading Harry past the door with 'EMPLOYEES ONLY' printed on it in big red letters. Behind it, the walls were white and the floors uncovered concrete, and the back-stocked items were kept in large boxes or still stacked wrapped in plastic, and another employee was chatting with a delivery man while checking over paperwork. Harry didn't get a good look around before she led him into her office, shutting the door. There was a picture of the Lindsay family sitting on the desk, her and Vanessa and Gordon and a man in a striped polo shirt, but otherwise the room was stuffed with papers and boxes and multiple calendars and a computer whirring angrily on the desk, a field of blue with white text proclaiming an error on the screen.

Mrs Lindsay was a businesslike woman, not unkind, but to the point, or maybe it was just that there were so many customers out front and she was stuck back here dealing with him. Either way, the job description she gave him was brief: he'd be stocking shelves, or running the cash register, or doing whatever else needed to be done around the store. Harry took it in with silent nods, filling out another form as neatly as he could manage while he was still standing.

"Let's see, what else… You'll start at three twenty-five an hour. Did I tell you that already? And there's a store discount after three months," she said, looking back down at her clipboard. "Since you're just a child. Not bad at all, really. More than you'd make mowing the lawn."

If Harry thought it was funny she thought his relatives would pay him anything for mowing the lawn, he didn't mention it.

"For now I'm going to put you on all the shifts Vanessa was scheduled for. That'll put you starting Monday at eight o'clock sharp, get here a quarter-till, you hear? Ready to work and all—oh! Uniform." Mrs Lindsay looked down at him doubtfully. "I'll see what I can order for you, but it'll probably be too big no matter what I get in. Still. For now, you wear your school trousers and shirt—a white button-up. That'll do. I'll have a name tag ready for you tomorrow. You'll come in and ask for Robbie, you hear? He's one of the closing leads; he'll be here to show you around. Do as he says, not as he does, and you'll be fine... And I'll be in around nine-thirty. Any questions?"

Harry shook his head. Mrs Lindsay narrowed her eyes ever so slightly.

"You know, I'm giving you a chance as a favor to Petunia," she said. "But don't think I don't expect quality work out of you, you hear me? If you're getting paid, you're going to work for it."

"Yes, ma'am," he replied automatically. It wouldn't be a problem. He'd worked for years without getting paid, anyways.

She looked like she wanted to say more, but the phone on her desk rang, and she sighed, picking it up, and waved Harry out.

-

When Marge finally left Privet Drive, leaving Dudley with a stuffed wallet and Harry with a sore ankle from Ripper's aggressive heel-nipping obsession, the summer began to fall back to routine. A new routine, one with far fewer chores than previous years, but also more work. As Mrs Lindsay had told him, he could work twenty-five hours per week while school wasn't in session, which was more than he had been scheduled for, so he was quick to snatch up the shifts others were trying to get out of, openings and Friday and Saturday afternoons, and the like. Of course, Uncle Vernon demanded his entire first paycheck, on account of rent and the shoes and the like, but after that, Harry could make £70 per week. Seventy pounds! It went into his bank account. His own bank account, freshly opened, in his name and everything, though he did keep some cash under his floorboard, since Petunia's name was on the account, too. It was exciting, at first, though there was never much money in reserve once he began to buy his own things.

Food was the regular charge. Petunia would still permit him to take extras from lunch and dinner when Vernon wasn't around to see it, but when he was, Harry needed to have food that he'd bought if he wanted to eat. After some bargaining, he had a small section of a shelf in the refrigerator to himself, though he didn't keep anything there that Dudley might find appetizing.

Mostly, he lived by what was on sale at work, keeping an eye on prices while he stocked shelves. He learned quickly which stores had markdowns on their baked goods at the end of the evening, and the ones which sold damaged boxes cheap, and how long fruit would stay good for when it looked like it was at the end of its life. He tracked sales of canned soup, especially, and kept it stored under his bed: an easy, filling, cheap meal, if a bit bland.

And he wasn't around the Ellis's place at meals so often, so he wasn't leeching off them all the time, either, which was a relief. Every time he ate there, he could hear Vernon's time-old outrage at freeloading welfare-abusing charity cases ringing in his ears. Not that he believed a word Vernon said, but it was difficult to shake.

So he bought his own food. It was expensive, especially considering that once school started again he'd only be able to work twelve hours, but despite his necessary thrift Harry was eating better and more regularly than he ever had before.

Whether by that or simple coincidence, he found himself growing more quickly than he had in years. He still wasn't as tall as Sam, but the gap between them was less noticeable, and if she talked him into playing footie he wasn't at as much of a disadvantage just by his height.

The trouble with growing was that his one pair of good trousers—the ones he'd gotten with his uniform when he'd started at Stonewall—were too short. It was noticeable, too, in the way that had Mrs Lindsay clicking her tongue at him when he came into work. Eventually, Will offered to take them shopping, and drove Harry and Sam out to a second-hand store.

At first, Harry had been grateful. If he had gotten a new uniform... Well. The thought of needing a new uniform for fall, of all the money he'd earned being torn away from him with only a set of drab grey clothes to show for it, of the money for several weeks' worth of meals spent in a single blow, had frankly been terrifying. The clothes at the shop Will found were used, and some of them had strange smells or stains or tears in awkward places, but with a bit of poking about Harry was able to find not only several still-serviceable uniforms but also clothes to wear at the Dursleys without drowning in Dudley's old things, and even two pairs of extra shoes that fit and would be good as long as his feet didn't grow too much.

It had been much later, as Harry was gleefully shoving Dudley's cast-offs into the garbage bag they belonged in, that the anger had set in. He'd bought himself all that, most of a functional wardrobe that actually fit him without being ridiculous, on a fraction of the part-time paycheck a thirteen-year-old could earn working at Tesco over the summer. In his whole lifetime, he had gotten one uniform at the beginning of primary school, before there were cast-offs to be tossed his way, and another at the beginning of secondary, after Ms Morris's intervention, and beyond that the one pair of socks he'd been given the previous Christmas. That was all the money the Dursleys had ever afforded him, and everything else had been what Dudley didn't need—the clothes he didn't wear, the food he didn't eat, the room he didn't sleep in.

In the kitchen, seated at the table with a tub of ice cream, Dudley let out a groan and whined—"Dad, the telly's gone all fuzzy. Fix it!" A minute later, Petunia let out a shriek as the lightbulb in the kitchen shattered, and then every other bulb in the rooms they occupied.

"BOY!"

Vernon came up stomping up the stairs, but Harry was already outside, shoving the bag of clothes in the bin. He looked up, hearing his uncle's voice through his open window, and his scowl deepened, but he waited a few minutes before creeping out and sneaking down the street, away from this horrible place.

-

A week later, Sam was waiting for him at the library, sitting on the low wall that contained the bushes running along the front wall of the building. She had a book in hand—Terry Pratchett, probably; she'd been on a kick all summer—but she wasn't reading it. Strange, considering she must have been waiting at least half an hour. Usually she went inside at that point.

"Sorry I'm late," Harry said, and she looked up, as though startled to see him. "Robbie was out sick, and Jordan had to call Mrs Lindsay, only Vanessa's still… are you alright?"

Sam was staring at him, but didn't seem to be hearing anything he said. "Gran found out about Niall."

"What, that they… broke up?"

"No. That they were dating at all," she said. "He—apparently Dad told her he would stop dating while I lived with him—I dunno. He told me not to mention Niall to her, but I figured it was just, you know, don't remind her. But apparently… she's trying to get custody again."

"What?" said Harry. He felt a lump forming in his throat. "But… I thought she couldn't have kids in the building she's in."

"I know," she said. "But she's talking about moving out—down the street, or something, because of course she wouldn't want to move here, disrupt her weekly bridge group or whatever. Never mind that—"

Sam cut off, which was good, because a moment later a woman holding the hand of a little girl came out of the library. The little girl grinned at them, proudly holding her picture book, and they waved back, and the woman smiled for their indulgence. They both watched the pair climb into a blue Volkswagen and pull out of the carpark.

"My mum," Sam started again, seething. "She lives about a fifteen minutes here. I've never lived anywhere but Little Whinging. Even when we were stuck hopping from flat to flat, we stayed in this area.I went to one primary school, and now I've gone to Stonewall for three years, and Gran… she thinks she can just take me away because Dad had a boyfriend? Because she doesn't approve? She doesn't care what I think. She thinks she's just gonna drag me off to bloody Dorset, because it would be inconvenient for her to move over here, and she thinks I'm going to believe she's doing it out of goodwill? Who the hell lives in Dorset ? I'll tell you who, my grandmother and all her fucking old lady friends, who she thinks she'll sit around with, soaking up praise for being so wonderful for taking in her nutcase daughter's bastard, out of the goodness of her shrivelled little heart, sparing me and my eternal soul from my bent dad's influence, because Goodness knows Sam can't think for herself!"

Harry didn't know what to say. Uncle Vernon's father lived in Dorset, but he didn't think that was what she wanted to hear. And he… he didn't want to go back to being completely without allies in Little Whinging. "Is it… is it a sure thing?" he asked.

"No," she said, and she seemed to deflate. "I don't… I don't think that she can , legally… but it involves going to court, and getting social workers involved again, and… And I sure as hell am going to try and tell them I want to stay here, but…"

She shifted, looking around again. It was the middle of the afternoon on a sunny day, and there were plenty of cars parked, but no one seemed to be going in or out of the library. "Look, it was… it wasn't exactly fun , last time. I mean, when mum…" She paused, and shook her head. "I don't really want to talk about it." Another pause. "Mum was picked up by the cops and I ended up in the hospital, and Gran was the one to put her foot down, and Dad wouldn't have found out except for that, probably, since he's so busy with work and mum's family doesn't talk to him, and that's on record. They decided it'd be better to keep me in here with Dad, even if it meant running into mum, since Gran couldn't take me, and… I just… if Gran tries to fight it… what if she does get custody?"

She looked miserable. Harry was still struggling to understand the situation. He came around to sit next to her on the low wall, measuring his footsteps and movements carefully. "I don't know how it works, but… they'd have to listen to you over her, right?"

"I hope so?" Sam sighed, and tugged at her ponytail. She was chewing on her lip. "Have… have you ever… you know, tried to get away from your family?"

The breath caught in Harry's throat.

They didn't talk about the Dursleys.

Well, sure; they came up every now and then—like at that first dinner with Will and Niall, or when Mrs Polkiss showed up at the library. But Harry didn't bring them up intentionally, and Sam didn't ask, normally.

He forced himself to breathe out. He'd been there when Sam's mother showed up, so it wasn't like she didn't have the right to ask for the same level of personal information. And the question wasn't even that specific.

But Harry had to pause and think about it. There was a time, when he was younger, when every time he was shut in his cupboard he would think about running away. He'd worked out a whole plan: steal Aunt Petunia's purse and run to the train station, get to London, live on the streets, and never think about the Dursleys ever again. Except then he'd remember the times he'd been shut out at night because he hadn't gotten the yard-work done soon enough and had to sleep out in the greenhouse, and at least at the Dursleys he'd had the cupboard and could steal food from the kitchen if they didn't feed him enough. And worse was the thought of what would happen if he got caught running away—if the cops found him and dragged him back. Vernon would have had his hide for the fuss, and Aunt Petunia wouldn't feed him for a week.

But there was once… "Dudley broke my arm, once, and Aunt Petunia had to take me to the hospital eventually. And someone at school got suspicious, and someone came to the house. But Aunt Petunia showed them Dudley's second bedroom, which… it had all Dudley's broken toys in it, until it really did become my room, but she told them they were mine, and that I liked to break things for attention, so an arm was really not that different." He scowled. "The lady looked at me like I was dirt, going out. She never even asked me anything, after Aunt Petunia showed her that."

"That's what I mean," said Sam. "If Gran shows up and tells them dad's some sort of… of… she calls him a deviant, and that sounds… If she convinces them he's, I dunno, corrupting me or something… people have to be smarter than that, right?"

"I dunno," said Harry. He bit his lip. "I mean… if it were my Uncle… my Uncle probably doesn't know about your dad, or we'd hear about it every time he drove past the Crescent…"

Sam sighed. "I don't get it," she said. "My mum—she's my mum, but she's actually a horrible person. She should be in jail, but somehow they thought taking me away would be enough, because they don't realize how horrible she is. Dad isn't. Dad is great, and he works really hard, and he's kind to everyone, and yet people still… what is it to them who he sleeps with?"

"Erm," said Harry. He really didn't want to think about Will sleeping with anyone . He was… well, Sam's dad. It would be like thinking about Petunia and Vernon— ugh …

She sighed. "Well, maybe nothing will happen. Dad and Niall have been broken up for over a month, and he hasn't brought anyone else home since then, so…" She trailed away. "You know the worst part? It's only two years until I'm sixteen, and after that, she'll have no say where I live. Or less than she has now, anyways. She's just doing it to cause trouble for dad. She tries to blame him for everything that happened with mum, since he wouldn't marry her even after she had me, which is ridiculous because mum was messed up to begin with, and, and—"

Sam cut off again, kicking one of her feet back to bounce off the wall. They sat in silence for several minutes, a woman with a stack of books going by giving them a strange look but not saying anything, a car pulling up and six young men in football jerseys climbing out and heading inside while the driver sped away.

"Sorry," said Sam, eventually. "I didn't mean to keep you from going in. Should we see if Jones brought in anything new?"

"Maybe… would you rather just take a walk?" Harry asked. He'd been on his feet all morning, and normally after work he didn't want to do anything but settle in with a stack of books and not interact with anyone, but he didn't think he'd be able to focus today, and surely Sam wouldn't, either. "We could go up to get ice cream from that place on the Avenue, or… up to the park on Queensway."

"You…" Sam started slowly. "You want to? I mean, I'm fine either way…"

"Why not?" said Harry. He stood up. "We're here every day; not like it's going anywhere. Come on… Sod your Gran, she doesn't have the right to ruin your summer. We can take care of ourselves."

-

School started again—without, to Harry's relief, any interference from Ms Morris or Mrs White. His hours at Tesco were cut back, but working at all still meant his time at the library and with Sam was less spent reading comics and watching movies and more getting caught up on homework. Since he'd been moved up, he was also in year ten, and that meant his GCSE courses had begun, and the teachers loved to remind them that each time they announced the more and more frequent tests and quizzes.

Sam had talked Harry into taking French with her, mostly as an excuse to talk Will into renting them more movies in the language, claiming it was revising. Never mind that the VHSs came with English subtitles, or, if they didn't, they sat around making up lines for the characters, not nearly at the level of making sense of what was actually being said.

Sometimes Will would come home and sink into the armchair next to their couch, and they'd look over ten minutes later and he'd be fast asleep, never mind if they were watching comedy, horror, or action. On weekends, he seemed to alternate between drinking copious amounts of tea and napping wherever he got too comfortable.

"He's got another big project at work," Sam muttered as they tiptoed around the kitchen, where he'd fallen asleep in the breakfast nook one Sunday afternoon. "I think they saw how well he'd done on the last one. Luckily he's not working with Niall this time around."

-

One evening in early October, coming up on the end of his shift, a familiar face appeared at the counter Harry was manning the register at. She was looking down into her purse as she set her basket on the counter, and didn't seem to notice Harry as he began the automatic process of scanning and bagging her purchases. He considered letting it go, but… she was bound to look up at some point, so…

He mustered his courage. "Did you find everything alright?"

Ms Morris looked up, meeting Harry's eyes over the counter. The register beeped— item not on file. Harry sighed, looking away to key it in by hand.

"Jesus H Christ on a pogo stick," she said faintly after a long minute. Harry looked back up in alarm. It wasn't every day you heard a teacher say something like that. "Mr Potter… Harry. How old, exactly, are you?"

"Thirteen?" said Harry, bagging the can of… creamed style corn, apparently.

"Thirteen," she echoed. She looked around, as though trying to find someone else to commiserate with, but there weren't any other customers in the store, and Robbie, in one of his typical sulks over something Mrs Lindsay had shouted at him, wasn't paying any attention as he shoved cans on the shelf. "Thirteen. And you're… working. Here."

"Vanessa Lindsay's worked here since she was thirteen, miss," he pointed out.

"Vanessa Lindsay's mother runs the place. And she doesn't live on Privet Drive, and she just does it for the pocket money."

"She lives on Magnolia Crescent, just around the corner, miss," said Harry.

"But you're…"

"I've got an early start on my CV," he said. It was a line he'd heard Mrs Lindsay give to Mrs Figg, the old cat lady from Wisteria Walk, when she'd asked what on earth Harry was doing shelving toilet paper.

"Here," she repeated. "Harry, you've got potential for much better things."

"Gotta start somewhere, miss," he said, because really, where did she think he was going to work, at age thirteen? What would she rather he be doing? "Your total comes out to ten pounds, forty-eight pence."

-

"Do you think I'm more like my mum or my dad?"

Harry looked up from the book he had open and found Sam's eyes across the table. She was staring down at the sandwich in her hands, looking at it as though of all the things and people in the dinner hall, it would be the one to unravel the mysteries of the universe. She was asking him, though, and Harry wasn't sure he had heard her right over the din of the other students.

"What's that?"

"Am I more like my mum or my dad?"

Harry folded the corner of the page of his book and shut it, picking up instead his water bottle and popping open the seal with his teeth. He took a long sip, trying to figure out what Sam wanted from him, asking something like that.

"I've never really met your mum."

Sam looked up, and seemed to realize where they were as she did so. Around them the other students were distributed in their usual bunches. And Harry and Sam—they were in their usual spot, too. It was strange, but Harry had never realized this had become normal. When had he gotten so used to sitting in the dinner hall, so comfortable he could get absorbed into his reading, where he had spent so much time trying desperately to hide, before? When had Sam stopped eating with the other girls altogether, and sitting across the table from him?

"You've seen her before. She looks like me. She—sometimes I say things, and there's words, phrases—they're hers."

"You say things that Will does, too," Harry said. "You guys laugh at the same things."

It didn't seem to satisfy her. Was it a trick question?

"But you like Chelsea, and he supports West Ham," he went on. "I think. You both spend so much time yelling at the players I'm not really sure if you support them or not."

That tugged edges of her mouth up, though it wasn't quite a smile. She gave up on the sandwich, setting it down, and looked around again. There wasn't much out of the ordinary to see: students in their identical uniforms, eating their identical lunches, living, as far as Harry knew, identical lives. Maybe not. Maybe every one of them had a mum like Sam's or relatives like Harry's, and were prone to asking questions with no good answers at the table. He didn't think so, but what did he know? People were… Difficult. Complex. Confusing.

"Your parents… are you like them?"

She'd gotten more daring, since she'd asked Harry about getting away from the Dursleys. Harry shrugged. "Probably not? Aunt Marge says I must be, which is a pretty good sign otherwise. But I don't remember them at all, and Aunt Petunia doesn't talk about them, and I don't think Uncle Vernon really knew them…"

"She doesn't talk about them—at all?"

"My dad might have been named James, since that's my middle name," he said. "And I probably look like him, since I don't look like Aunt Petunia at all…."

"You don't know their—You've never even seen them?"

Harry looked down at his book again, echoing the old story dully. "They were drunks. Died in a car crash. Not really worth remembering, anyways."

Not that he believed that. Maybe they were drunks, but they were his. Or they had been, before they'd been taken away from him.

When he was little, he used to pass hours in his cupboard entertaining the fantasy that they were somehow still alive. Dreaming that one day they'd show up and take him away and that it had all been some awful mistake that he'd ended up with the Dursleys. Or that maybe he had an aunt or an uncle or a grandparent on his dad's side, and they'd come to rescue him, even if Aunt Petunia insisted they were all dead, too, dead and worthless and didn't want him, anyways.

Of course, once he'd gotten a bit older, and 'dead' began to mean a bit more than just 'not here', he'd stopped. There was no point in dreaming. For all his freakishness he couldn't bring the dead back to life just by wishing it—God knows he'd wasted enough hours doing so. Even if they were somehow still alive—which they weren't, but even if—they'd be perfect strangers to him. He doubted he would recognize them if he passed them on the street, or them him. It was more painful to waste time and energy on hope for something impossible.

After all, if there was someone else out there who might want him, the Dursleys would have gotten rid of him already. It was easier to accept that he was alone.

"I don't ever want to have kids," Sam said suddenly.

"What?"

"I don't ever want to… mess up someone's life, as much as they messed up mine."

Harry opened his mouth, closed it again, took another sip of water. "I don't think you're going to," he said. "To mess up anyone's life, I mean. And you're not like either of them, really. Your mum spends all her money drinking, and Will spends all his time working. I think you're much more… dimensional than that."

"I don't spend my time drinking or working because I'm fourteen," she said, unimpressed. "Not all of us are going for a bootstraps takeover of Tesco, Potter."

They stared at each other, and then the tension broke, and they started giggling. Weird, thought Harry. He didn't even try to stifle it. Catherine Pierce was giving them a strange look, and he didn't care one bit.

"Well, you could apply for a job too, you know," he said. "We'll make it a proper coup d'etat. Or we could just wait thirty years, and Mrs Lindsay will retire, and then we'll be in control."

Sam shook her head, snickering. "The meek shall inherit the earth."

Harry frowned. "That's really not at all—"

"As if you ever pay attention in chapel."

"Not like you do either. And you always sleep through RE."

"Yeah, well… speaking of that… can I borrow your homework?"

"Sam!"

-

"Potter," called Robbie, holding the phone receiver to his chest. "You've got someone on the phone."

Harry turned, frowning. "For me?"

"Yeah, for you, you see any other Potters around here? Get up here, kid, before I hang up."

When Harry took the phone, he wasn't sure what to expect. Mrs Lindsay, maybe, wanting him to make sure Robbie wasn't wearing a knit hat again, or to get some specific task done. He wasn't expecting to hear Will's voice crackling down the line.

"Harry—sorry for calling you at work like this—I'm stuck in London, not going to be able to get home until late; big report… But Sam's stuck at home all alone, and Maxine did another drive-by, and I don't want her stuck there all alone… I know you don't get off until eight, but could you go by after, and stay with her? She's…"

"I'll go," said Harry, not even thinking about it. "Should I—is it safe?"

"Thank you—really, Harry, thanks. I don't think she'll come back tonight," Will said. "If she does, call the cops right away, but I don't think she will. She's probably off and gotten pissed by now, nothing to worry about, but Sam… you know she doesn't like being alone…"

"I'll go," Harry repeated.

"Thanks, Harry. I—"

A voice called for him in the background, and he heard a rustling—Will's hand covering the receiver—and a muffled response.

"Sorry, I've got to go, Harry—if you want to get take-out on the way over, I'll cover the cost—thanks again—"

"No problem," said Harry, but then the call cut off. 

-

"Dad called you?" Sam asked dully.

"Yeah," said Harry. He held up the bag of food he'd brought. Not take-out, but everything to make pasta. "Can I borrow your kitchen?"

She stepped back from the door, letting him past. She didn't seem altogether excited to see him. "You don't have to do this, you know."

"Will's paying for it," Harry said, toeing off his shoes.

"I mean, come here. Babysit me. You're younger than me, for God's sake."

Harry paused in the door of the kitchen, turning around. Everything had been so easy between them, recently. He hadn't considered—"Do you want me to leave?"

"That's not what I meant!"

Harry's frown deepened, trying to figure out what she did want from him. Was the food actually the problem? "If you're fine with me staying, then I'm going to—"

"I'm not a child, you know?" she snapped.

"You're older than me, remember?"

"I don't need someone to come hold my hand every time something happens!"

"That would be weird," Harry agreed.

He paused, trying to figure out how to calm her down. For all the time he'd spent with Sam over the summer, he hadn't seen her angry since Niall had left. And he wasn't going to lie to her: after Will called, he'd spent the rest of his shift worrying about her, and glancing out the windows in search of the tell-tale beat-up red Astra. He'd remembered how scared Sam had gotten, last time, and how since the very first day they'd spoken she'd been afraid of being alone. Now, she was being—well, it didn't make sense.

"If you don't want me to go," Harry said slowly, "Could you at least tell me why you're angry? Did your mum say something to you? Did she—"

"I locked her out," Sam said. "And Mr Lindsay came out and threatened to call the cops, and then she left."

"Okay," said Harry. "Then…"

She clenched her fist, and brushed past Harry into the kitchen, fetching out juice from the fridge and pouring herself half a glass, which she drained in one angry swig. When she put the pitcher back, she slammed the door shut.

"And then I tried to call Dad, and got the bloody secretary again. And then a few minutes later, the phone rings, and I think it's going to be him, but no. It's Gran. Fucking—Gran. Because apparently Mum went and found a phone and called her, making up all sorts of bullshit about me being—and she—she wouldn't listen to me—she never listens—"

Suddenly she turned and flung the empty glass across the room. It crashed into the wall by the breakfast nook and shattered as it fell to the floor.

Harry had backed out into the hall before he even realized what he was doing. His heart was pounding. He was—he was surprised, that was all; he'd never seen Sam lash out like that. Startled. He swallowed, and dropped the bag to the floor, forcing himself back into the doorway, but he couldn't bring himself to get any closer.

What good would it do, anyway? She didn't want him here. He should just—

No. He… it wouldn't be right, to leave her alone. Will had asked, and Harry wasn't so much a coward that he was going to run. It was just one glass, anyways. Not like Harry hadn't seen Dudley put his foot through a television, or throw his tortoise through the greenhouse roof—and that had been worse, because Harry had been put in charge of cleaning up the glass and getting rid of the poor creature so darling Dudders wouldn't have to see such a sight.

Sam was glaring at the remains of the glass, as though it had offended her by breaking. She was shaking, too, though not in the same way as Harry was. After a long minute of silence, she dropped her head, and went across the kitchen to fetch the broom from the laundry room.

"I wish he hadn't called you," she said as she swept the shards of glass into the tray. Her voice was low, and dull, again. "I wish for once he'd choose me instead of his job. He doesn't even like it."

Harry chewed his cheek, willing his heart to slow. This was well outside of his realm of experience. Parents, that was, and trying to calm someone down; if Dudley threw a tantrum, Harry retreated. Even if he'd wanted to, it wasn't his place to calm his cousin down, and he'd no doubt earn a fist to the face for his efforts. But Sam…

"You know you're being, um... reductive."

She snorted, and banged the tray on the side of the bin to get the glass off. Harry winced as the pieces clanked against each other. They were probably going to tear the bag open.

"Well, who's to say he's going to show up in court, either," Sam muttered. "I bet he'll forget about it entirely. Gran won't even have to convince them of her bullshit." She slammed the cupboard door shut. "They'll just see he can't be bothered and push me off to her."

Harry's mouth was dry.

"I thought it wasn't a sure thing."

"Yeah, well trust the bloody government to actually move when that bitch has something to do with it," Sam spat.

"When?"

"They said they'd wait until the holiday, so I'd be out of school. December the 20th." She scowled. "Happy bloody Christmas."

"They have to listen to you," Harry said, though he could hear his voice quavering with uncertainty. "They—it's you who has to live with her. They have to…"

"Yeah, well, I'd—I'd have to—"

Sam's shoulders slumped, and went and sat down in the breakfast nook. After a moment to work up his nerve, to convince his feet that this really was what he wanted to do, Harry grabbed the bag of groceries and went to sit across from her, pulling out, after a moment's thought, the satsumas he'd gotten them for dessert, rolling one across to Sam and busying his own hands with peeling his own in a long, spiraling strip, the way she'd always roped him into doing as a sort of competition.

After a minute of staring at it glumly, Sam gave in and started peeling hers, too.

"Last time," she finally said, "When… when mum was… you… You've seen how I freeze up," she said. "When I—I get scared. I can't do anything. I can't speak."

Harry remembered. He'd had to drag her across the street to hide her away, and even later that evening, after she'd calmed down she'd barely been able to string a handful of words together at a time. Much different from her regular talkative nature. Much different from now—but he supposed she was driving off the fear with anger. That, at least, he knew about.

She swallowed. "Last time I… I was supposed to speak about her, in court, but I, I couldn't," she said. "I just. I got up there, and they started asking questions and I—my mind went blank. I—I could have—maybe they would have locked her up, if I had just… Gran told them I was shy. If it—if it's another woman, I won't… they always think I'd be more comfortable, just because…"

Harry frowned. He could see how that would be a problem, though it didn't make sense to him. He was never short of words, especially in circumstances where he should keep his mouth shut. Actually…

"What if I went with you?" he said. "I could—maybe they'd let me speak for you. Be a witness. I could tell them—"

"No!" Sam practically shouted. She looked breathless and pale. Harry blinked, his heart beginning to beat a bit faster again, eyes flicking to her hands—but she took a deep, shuddering breath. "No, I… thanks, Harry, really, but… But I don't… It sounds awful, but I don't want you there. In that place. With them—with her…" Her eyes were wide as she stared at him, and Harry nodded slowly.

He could understand that, too. The time Petunia had shown up on the Ellis's doorstep, Harry had just about fainted.

"Maybe you could write something," he said. "Ahead of time. And have someone else read it."

But she was shaking her head. "Who? If it was dad, no one would believe I wrote it. If it was someone else… no, they wouldn't believe it. Besides, no one is going to listen to what I say, anyways. They never do. And what would I say? She's a homophobic bitch that I hate and who hates me?"

Harry swallowed. "Well, maybe your dad's arguments will be enough."

"He's young. He's homosexual. I only saw him a few times a year before this. And he's deadly afraid of losing his job." Sam grabbed the peel of her satsuma and started tearing it into smaller and smaller pieces. "Adults are ridiculous," she said. "They always try to tell you that you can rely on them, but when it comes down to it, they never follow through." Her face twisted, and she threw the scraps of peel down. "Unless it's someone like Gran, who you don't want to follow through, who's just making things worse… if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself."

Harry wasn't sure what exactly she meant by that. Sure, he agreed—you couldn't trust adults not to be short-sighted and self-righteous, but it was adults who ran the world. While they were underage, they couldn't really do anything. If he could have, he would have quit school and worked full-time to afford to live somewhere—anywhere—besides the Dursleys', but that was illegal, and he had to be practical and think about life after graduation, anyways. Whatever Sam was thinking of 'doing herself', Harry doubted very much it was at all practical.

But he didn't say that. Instead, he grabbed the bag of groceries again, standing up. "Like dinner," he said. "They can never get dinner right, but that's why we can cook for ourselves. Wanna help?"

She smiled tentatively, as if despite herself, though it was gone just as fast. That was fine with Harry; it was a terribly forced and clumsy shift, and not exactly like any of her problems had been resolved, but being angry was tiresome and cooking was easier. And being hungry and angry was worse.

After a moment, she stood up. "Alright, then," she said, voice quiet. "Cooking. Yeah. Sure. What's on the menu?"

-

The worst thing about all of this was the thoughts Harry couldn't shake. They made him cringe the first time, and he tried to dismiss them, because logically, they made no sense. But because he was thinking logically through it, and because the moment you try to forget a thought it becomes nearly impossible to let go of, the plague of them got worse and worse. When Petunia sneered at him for burning breakfast; when Dudley—fatter than ever before—came home for his longer winter holiday and barely looked up from the telly, his vacant drooling punctuated by onerous laughter and shouts for Harry to fetch him this snack or that; when Vernon shoved him out of the way in the hall and he tumbled into the staircase railing, earning a vibrant bruise; when he was ringing up Mrs Figg for cat food at work and she asked if the Dursleys were staying for Christmas or if he'd be coming to stay with her again—they haunted him.

And when the news came back that Sam's Gran had won custody, and Sam went straight to her room and wouldn't open the door for anyone, the guilt welled so strongly in Harry's chest he thought he was going to be sick.

Will, for all he hadn't been able to argue that his home was a safer environment for Sam than her Gran's, had at least managed to convince the court that she should stay with him through Christmas. He even took a few extra days off work, telling them his boss couldn't argue when he hadn't taken a day since he started, and he had Thursday and Friday off for Christmas anyways. They spent most of that sprawled in the living room, but even Monty Python and the Holy Grail, which Sam and Will could have and had previously acted out every scene from memory alongside the screen, couldn't get any of them laughing.

And when Sam's Gran came, early on the twenty-sixth, and she opened her arms to offer 'Samantha' a hug—not that Sam would go within three feet of her—it only got worse. Harry could see the way the woman glared over Sam's head at Will, who was trying and failing miserably to be his usual cheerful self, and the way her eyes swept over Harry and her expression settled on derision, but when she looked at Sam, it was almost like she actually—

Like Sam was actually wanted. By her dad, by her mum, by her Gran—by Harry, even. He wished he could forget that he'd ever thought it, knowing that Sam wasn't safe where she was going or where she had been before Will, knowing that being wanted in Sam's case wasn't a good thing, but even so jealousy had sprouted a green leaf in Harry's gut.

She left. Without preamble, without more than a muttered 'bye' Will and Harry's way, without so much as looking at any of them as she climbed into the passenger seat of her grandmother's car and glared out into vacant space.

Harry couldn't blame her, not when he'd had such thoughts. He wouldn't have said goodbye to himself, either.

He and Will stood and watched the car disappear around the bend of Magnolia Crescent, and listened until the hum of the old engine had left them in silence. It was an eerily quiet morning; the lawns frosted and the neighbors either sleeping off Christmas dinner or off at early Church service, not standing out on the drive watching the fog of their breath blur out their faces. Harry finally shifted, and caught sight of someone watching from an upstairs window, across the street, an unfamiliar face that might have just appeared or might have been watching the whole thing.

Harry ducked his head and turned away, mind already on sneaking in past Petunia without getting roped into cooking breakfast, but something made him pause and look back. Will was still standing there, pajama bottoms and a t-shirt and a throw blanket wrapped around his shoulders and bare feet red against the frozen grass, looking very small and very lost for an adult man.

Harry swallowed. It felt wrong to leave him like this, but without Sam, there was nothing to tie the two of them together. Without Sam…

He cleared his throat, and raised his voice a bit. "Bye, Will," he said, and turned and hurried away.