"Sorry, I was just…" he trailed off, hoping to leave the impression he spaced out in her direction. It was partially true, but he didn't know how to describe what he wanted to say and ended up flushed scarlet, trying to sink onto his seat. He turned his attention to the teacher instead. She seemed to think he was disrupting things intentionally, he felt concern for her job and indignity at his behavior before he broke the connection and turned back to his desk.
He never entered the mind of the girl whose cat died again. He felt too embarrassed by the memory of his humiliation. He did, however, break further into Dudley and the Dursley's heads. He knew what he saw between black perspective lines and white wisps. They were memories; moments he had never experienced himself, never were there for, and yet felt them anyway.
He knew that when he saw things like this, it was too far. That he was pushing away the privacy of others. He didn't care, he felt wonderful things sometimes. Terrible things as well, true, but nowhere near as bad as the real memories made in his aunt and uncle's house.
So what, if his happiest memory was being proposed to some thirty years ago?
pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq
Harry picked up the letter and stared at it. He felt something in his chest move and a rush of feelings as he stared at the innocuous envelope that so boldly displayed his name. He had no friends, no one who cared for him. Who would send a letter to somebody like him?
But the words on the envelope were plain and clear, in deep green ink above a purple seal bearing four animals and the letter H.
Mr. H. Potter
The Cupboard under the Stairs
4 Privet Drive
Little Whinging
Surrey
The letter was snatched from his hand before he could so much as tear the edge.
"That's mine!" He seethed, trying to snatch it back from his uncle's meaty paw.
"Who would bother writing to you?" Vernon shook his head with the words. They came out taunting and biting. As Vernon inspected the envelope his face turned colors so quickly even Harry was slightly concerned.
I hope that's not contagious.
Vernon gasped out his wife's name, stumbling over the syllables is his… anger? Terror? Harry couldn't tell, but it made for an interesting color. Petunia grasped it with a curious expression, and when Harry read her he felt only confusion at the state of events.
Not particularly helpful.
She gasped and clutched at her throat and made stiff noises. Harry read her again, but he wasn't prepared for the onslaught of dread and jealousy.
"As that letter is mine," Harry announced loudly, punctuating each word, "I would like to read it."
Petunia met his eyes.
Red hair and green soft eyes, the face of a cute girl and the harder, more angular face of a dark-haired boy. A branch falling, fear and dread… a carved stick. Envy like Harry had never felt before in his life and, deep pain from wounds that were never allowed to heal.
["A witch in the family!" …" couldn't be" …"so proud" …" arrogant little" …" I'm going to tell mummy" …" You're a freak Lily!" …]
"What's that about-" Harry interrupted himself abruptly. He couldn't let them know. How would he ask about what he saw without admitting that he saw it?
A witch? What was going on? Was that Petunia's voice talking to my mother, Lily?
He caught Vernon's eye and felt his anger. Harry took a step back, retreating down the hallway to his cupboard. Dudley began to screech about wanting to read it while Harry backed up.
"Vernon," Aunt Petunia was saying in a quivering voice, "look at the address. How could they possibly know where he sleeps? You don't think they're watching the house?"
"Watching - spying - might be following us," muttered Uncle Vernon frantically. His speech was sporadic in the way it always turned when he was furious or worried, or when the bank called.
There was a knock at the door.
It was crisp and polite. Everyone turned towards the sound. Vernon froze, turning the color of day old porridge. Petunia collapsed onto the back of a chair, using it to steady her shaking legs.
There were two more knocks just as polite.
Harry took a step towards it. He usually opened the doors for guests and took their coats and things. When he stepped forward Vernon made an odd strangled noise and Harry took a step back to look at him curiously and cautiously.
There was fourth, fifth, and sixth knock at the door.
It was Dudley who eventually opened the door to a tall, bearded man with piercing, blue eyes that peered out at him over half-moon spectacles. He was dressed strangely, wearing robes like a minister or preacher or something…
Like a witch? Or maybe, a wizard?
The man broke Harry from his thoughts.
"Ah," he began, spying the letter in Petunia's hand, "I see young Harry has received his letter. Has he read it? It is, of course, very good to see you again Petunia, it has been quite some time since my last visit." He spoke pleasantly. "I shall assume you have invited me warmly into your lovely home."
The man stepped forward and Petunia squeaked, Dudley took a step back in shock and Vernon's mustache seemed to seize.
The man took the opportunity to look around the room. His eyes flickered to Harry, and the cupboard which Harry had opened the door to escape into. The man's eyes were fast and bright, and Harry doubted he missed the photo albums and pictures framed on the walls which contained zero evidence of Harry even living here.
He also doubted he missed the bed tucked under the stairs, people weren't supposed to know about the cupboard. He would be beat for this.
The urge to duck into his cupboard was strong.