Sigh.

"Yes, Aunt Petunia," she says, and after a few moments the cupboard door swings open.

She purses her lips, looking her over from head to toe when she exits the cupboard under the stairs, then says, "I want you to look after the bacon. And don't you dare let it burn, I want everything perfect on Duddy's birthday."

"Of course, Aunt Petunia."

She doesn't let the bacon burn. She cuts it into slightly smaller pieces than are strictly necessary, nibbles down a few of them hot from the pan when she's very very sure her aunt isn't looking, and arranges the remainder on her relatives' plates in pretty patterns.

The table's almost hidden beneath all Dudley's birthday presents. It looks as though Dudley has gotten the new computer he wanted, not to mention the second television and the racing bike. It's unclear why Dudley would want a racing bike.

Dorea's Uncle Vernon enters the kitchen as she's turning over the bacon. He inspects the process from afar, as if trying to spot a flaw and, not finding any, contents himself to sit on a chair, engulfing it with his backside, and read his newspaper.

Her cousin walks into the kitchen with Aunt Petunia a while later, and, after making sure Dorea doesn't have as many eggs as he does, starts counting his presents, with a huge smile on his face.

Then it falls. "Thirty-six," he says, looking up at his parents. "That's two less than last year."

"Darling, you haven't counted Auntie Marge's present, see, it's here under this big one from Mommy and Daddy."

"All right, thirty-seven then," says Dudley, going red in the face.

Stupid spoiled slob.

No one's paying attention to Dorea; all their attention is dedicated to preventing Dudley from exploding.

"And we'll buy you another two presents while we're out today. How's that, popkin? Two more presents. Is that all right?"

Dudley squints and furrows his brows in concentration, then says slowly, "So I'll have thirty... thirty..."

"Thirty-nine, sweetums."

"Oh," he says, sitting back down heavily and grabbing the nearest parcel. "All right, then."

Crisis averted, Vernon chuckles and ruffles Dudley's hair. "Little tyke wants his money's worth, just like his father. 'Atta boy, Dudley!"

The phone rings, and Petunia goes to answer it.

His money's worth. And what money, exactly? Sigh. Typical.

Dudley proceeds to unwrap a racing bike, a video camera, a remote control airplane, sixteen new computer games, and a VCR. He's ripping the paper off a gold wristwatch—

—when Petunia comes back from the telephone looking angry and worried. "Bad news, Vernon. Mrs. Figg's broken her leg. She can't take her," she says, jerking her head in Dorea's direction.

Aw, poor Mrs. Figg.

Dudley's mouth falls open in horror.

"Now what?" she asks, looking furiously at Dorea.

She meets her aunt's gaze with a serenity not quite stepping over the line into insolence. If she didn't think to source a backup babysitter that's her problem, not Dorea's.

"We could phone Marge," Uncle Vernon suggests.

"Don't be silly, Vernon, she hates the girl."

"What about what's-her-name, your friend—Yvonne?"

"On vacation in Majorca," she snaps.

Damn straight that woman hates her. It's very much mutual.

"I suppose we could take her to the zoo," she says slowly, "...and leave her in the car..."

Eugh. On the other hand, it wouldn't be that hard to escape.

"That car's new, she's not sitting in it alone..."

Dudley begins to cry. Or rather, he scrunches up his face and starts wailing—he hasn't really had a real cry in years.

"Dinky Duddydums, don't cry, Mummy won't let her spoil your special day!" she says, flinging her arms around him.

"I... don't... want... her... t-t-to come!" he yells between huge, pretend sobs. "She always sp-spoils everything!" He shoots Dorea a nasty grin through the gap in his mothers arms. 

She gives him an unimpressed look in return.

...he's honestly shocked, but before he can do anything about it the doorbell rings.

"Oh, good Lord, they're here!" she says frantically and goes to answer the door.

Dudley immediately stops pretending to cry to welcome his best friend, Piers Polkiss, the one who usually holds Dudley's victims' arms while he punches them.

Vernon goes to greet them—

—and Petunia excuses herself and walks back to the kitchen. "Girl, come here," she tells Dorea, and goes to an out-of-the-way corner.

"Yes, Aunt Petunia," she says, and goes.

When she's sure no one else will hear, she turns a very stern face to Dorea. "I will be very, extremely put out if—any funny business happens. Do you understand, girl?"

"I understand."

Aunt Petunia squints at her and looks about to say something else, but thinks better of it, deciding to just return to the living room to talk to Piers' parents.

Soon enough they're gone and the Dursleys plus Dorea and Piers are to go to the car.

Dorea attempts to interact with the other inhabitants of the car as little as possible. That seems best for everyone, really.

Eventually they reach the zoo where Dudley and his friend were to spend the former's birthday. The Dursleys stop at an ice cream stand in front of the entrance and get large chocolate ice creams to Dudley and Piers, but before they can usher Drea away the lady inquires as to what she wants.

She is really tempted to order the same thing but today is not the day to provoke her aunt. She picks the cheapest thing--a lemon ice lolly--with her best beaming adorable-little-girl smile.

Uncle Vernon dutifully pays for it and doesn't even complain.

Into the zoo they go.

Dorea looks around with interest.

At lunchtime they eat at the restaurant, and Dudley throws a tantrum because his knickerbocker glory doesn't have enough ice cream on top, so Vernon buys him another one and Dorea's allowed to finish the first.

Ooh! Dudley's an idiot, this is lovely.

After lunch, they go to the reptile house. It's cool and dark in there, with lit windows all along the walls. Behind the glass, all sorts of lizards and snakes are crawling and slithering over bits of wood and stone. Dudley and Piers wanted to see huge, poisonous cobras and thick, man-crushing pythons. Dudley quickly finds the largest snake in the place. It could wrap its body twice around Uncle Vernon’s car and crush it into a trash can—but at the moment it doesn't look in the mood. In fact, it's fast asleep.

Sensible creature. And beautiful, too.

Dudley stands with his nose pressed against the glass, staring at the glistening brown coils. "Make it move," he whines at his father.

Uncle Vernon taps on the glass, but the snake doesn't budge.

"Do it again," he orders.

So he does, but the snake still doesn't react.

"This is boring," Dudley moans. He shuffles away

...And what about it is supposed to be more appealing if it moves? It's lovely just lying there. Ugh. Dudley, she thinks dismissively, and goes over to admire the snake from closer now that her cousin's gone.

Slowly, very slowly, the snake raises its head until its eyes are on a level with Dorea's. It nods, slowly and meaningfully.

She smiles at it.

"You're beautiful," she murmurs.

Its tongue moves in an odd way her brain parses as a smile. Then it looks at the Dursleys and raises its head as if it were looking at the ceiling. It seems to be saying, with its oddly expressive face, "I get that all the time."

"I am sorry about them."

It does something with its body that resembles a shrug.

"Do you have a lot of people bothering you like that, here?"

Slow nod.

"Ugh. I'm sorry. I wish there was something I could do."

Another snakish shrug.

And then Piers' voice rings, making the snake do something that would be a jump if it had legs: "DUDLEY! MR. DURSLEY! COME AND LOOK AT THIS SNAKE! YOU WON’T BELIEVE WHAT IT'S DOING!"

--Please let him be referring to some other snake--

Nope! Dudley waddles towards her and the snake as fast as he can, leaning against the glass—

—and then he yelps and jumps back as the glass vanishes.

...Aunt Petunia is never going to believe this wasn't her fault.

The snake rapidly uncoils itself and slithers out onto the floor. People start screaming and running for the exits, but the snake pauses, looks at Dorea, and says, "Brazil, here I come. Thankssss, amiga."

"You're welcome," she murmurs.

If she's going to get in trouble--well, at least this poor creature's gonna be okay.

Onwards it goes.

"Were you talking to it?" Dudley screeches.

"Don't be ridiculous, Dudley, people can't talk to snakes."

Uncle Vernon does not look convinced.

And the zoo director makes Petunia a cup of strong, sweet tea and apologises over and over again, but that's it for them. Back to the car.

By which time Dudley's certain the snake nearly bit off his leg and Piers insists it tried to squeeze him to death.

Yeah that's not going to help.

They get home and by then Vernon's playing along with Dudley and Piers' adventure story. The boy's parents arrive to pick him up soon after, and then he turns his previously concealed fury back to Dorea.

"Go—cupboard—stay—no meals."

Petunia runs over to the kitchen to get him some brandy.

She swishes off to her cupboard with as much dignity as she can muster.

The snake managed to escape the zoo, and that earns her her longest-ever punishment. By the time she's allowed out of the cupboard for anything other than school the summer holidays have started and Dudley has already broken his new video camera, crashed his remote control airplane, and, first time out on his racing bike, knocked down old Mrs. Figg as she crossed Privet Drive on her crutches.

The biggest problem with summer holidays is, of course, that Dudley's gang visits every day: Piers, Dennis, Malcolm, and Gordon, each bigger and stupider than the last, and Dudley, being the biggest and stupidest of the lot, is of course their leader. They mostly give Dorea a wide berth, but when she's around they make loud remarks about the smell and wonder if something died around there. They seem to find this joke hilarious no matter how many times they've made it.

Boys are the worst. She doesn't dignify their remarks with any kind of reaction.

In September, though, they're all going to secondary school. Dudley and Piers have been accepted to Uncle Vernon's old private school, Smeltings, but Dorea's going to Stonewall High, the local state high school. Dudley finds this hilarious.

"They stuff people's heads down the toilet the first day at Stonewall," he tells Dorea. "Want to come upstairs and practice?"

"Don't be silly, Dudley, I'm a girl. Boys are the ones who stoop to infantile altercations of that sort."

"—what?" he says, taking a while to parse that.

Yeah she's not gonna wait around for him to figure it out.

One day in July Aunt Petunia takes Dudley to London to buy his uniform and leaves Dorea at Mrs. Figg's, who seems to have lost some of her erstwhile fondness for her cats given that she broke her leg tripping over one.

Aww, that's a pity. Dorea still likes you, kitties.

That evening, Dudley parades around the living room for the family in his brand-​new uniform. Smeltings' boys wear maroon tailcoats, orange knickerbockers, and flat straw hats called boaters. They also carry knobbly sticks, used for hitting each other while the teachers aren't looking. This is supposed to be good training for later life.

Dudley looks horrible, of course, but Dudley always looks horrible, so.

There's a horrible smell in the kitchen the next morning when Dorea goes in for breakfast. It seems to be coming from a large metal tub in the sink.

...This is kind of alarming!

The tub seems to be full of what looks like dirty rags swimming in gray water.

Aunt Petunia walks into the kitchen and doesn't spare the tub a glance.

Oh...kay...

Dudley and—

—Uncle Vernon come in, wearing identical expressions of disgust. Uncle Vernon opens his newspaper as usual and Dudley bangs his stick on the table as he's been wont to do lately.

Yeah this seems like a good day to attract as little attention as possible.

They have possibly been informed of the source of the smell, because they don't complain. When he's done with breakfast they hear the click of the mail slot and the flop of letters on the doormat.

"Get the mail, Dudley," says Uncle Vernon from behind his paper.

"Make Dorea get it."

"Get the mail, Dorea."

Why did he even bother telling Dudley to do it? 

She goes to get the mail.

Three things lay on the doormat: a postcard from Uncle Vernon's sister Marge, who's vacationing on the Isle of Wight, a brown envelope that looks like a bill, and—a letter for Dorea:

Ms. D. Potter
The Cupboard under the Stairs
4 Privet Drive
Little Whinging
Surrey 

She stares at it for a moment--no one ever sends her letters--before quickly and surreptitiously slipping it under her clothes. She's not sure what Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon would do if they knew but she can guess she wouldn't like it. She dutifully walks back to the table and hands Uncle Vernon the bill and postcard.

No one spares her a glance.

"Marge's ill," Uncle Vernon informs Petunia. "Ate a funny whelk..."

Dorea escapes back to her cupboard as quickly as she can without looking suspicious.

The inside of the letter is just as fancy as the outside, written with green ink. The first page reads:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL
of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,
Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Ms. Potter,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress

Her heart leaps. 

After a moment she realizes it is obviously a practical joke or a promotion for something, and that's disappointing, but still, the fact that someone decided to send it to her is thrilling, and it is awfully fancy--

wait. 

If it's a practical joke, how do they know about the cupboard?

...Ee. 

What do they mean by owl, though? Maybe that'll be elucidated. She turns to read the rest.

Also in fancy ink:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL
of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

UNIFORM
First-year students will require

1. Three sets of plain work robes (black)
2. One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear
3. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)
4. One winter cloak (black, with silver fastenings)

Please note that all pupils' clothes should carry name tags.

COURSE BOOKS
All students should have a copy of each of the following:
  The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk
  A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot
  Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling
  A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch
  One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore
  Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger
  Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander
  The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble

OTHER EQUIPMENT
  1 wand
  1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)
  1 set glass or crystal phials
  1 telescope
  1 set brass scales
Students may also bring, if they desire, an owl OR a cat OR a toad.

PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS
ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICK

Lucinda Thomsonicle-Pocus
Chief Attendant of Witchcraft Provisions

...This tells her absolutely nothing about how to get any of these things. 

Well. 

Alright. 

She composes a reply. 

To whom it may concern:

 I received your letter regarding my acceptance to your school, and would be happy to confirm attendance, if only I knew how. What do you mean by my owl, how am I to obtain the supplies, and how am I to get to the school? 

Sincerely, 

Dorea Potter.

Then she checks the envelope for a return address.

There isn't one.

Aargh. 

When she can get away with it she sneaks out of the house with both letters and enough filched spare change to pay postage and sneaks out to the post office.

"Good afternoon," says the person at the post office.

"Good afternoon. I got a letter and I want to reply to it but there's no return address, is there any way you can help me?"

"—no return address? I'm sorry, we can't send a letter unless we know where to."

"Okay. I don't know how the post office works, I was hoping you had records or something you could use. Thank you for your time."

"You're welcome." Smile.

She smiles back and leaves.

The Dursleys haven't really noticed she was gone.

Good. 

She is angry. Who do these people think they are, dangling hope in front of her nose and giving her absolutely no way to grab it--

She hides the letter--it's still fancy--and goes about life as normal.

Next morning there's mail again.

"Dorea, go fetch the mail."

She goes and fetches the mail.

The only thing there is is, in fact, the letter from the wizards.

...Um? 

Well, she already has the one, it's not like it'll hurt anything to let Uncle Vernon confiscate this one, and maybe he will have any idea what's going on. 

"There's a letter for me," she says, sounding surprised.

The best description of what Vernon Dursley does then might be "guffaw," but that probably does not do justice to the full-body experience that was. "Who would be addressing letters to you, girl?"

"Some nutters who want to play a practical joke about magic," she says, because the Dursleys react with bizarre fervor to any mention of magic not explicitly disclaimed even when it ought to be redundant.

"Oh, that's ridiculous," he says, glancing at the letter dismissively—

—then he stares, his face going from red to green faster than a set of traffic lights, and doesn't stop there, going all the way to the greyish white of old porridge. "P-P-Petunia!" he gasps.

Dudley's attention is caught, and he tries to grab the envelope.

But Petunia grabs it first, then looks at it and raises a hand to her mouth in shock. She opens it and reads the first line, and stops there.

Okay yeah they definitely know what's going on.

"I want to read that letter!"

"Get out," she whispers, "both of you."

... 

She gets out. If this behavior on her aunt and uncle's part continues she still has the option to make a fuss later.

Dudley has a short-lived fight with his father and is promptly kicked out as well, and the door closes. He immediately puts his ear against the keyhole.

"What're they saying?" she whispers after a moment's conflictedness.

He glares at her and ignores her.

Tch. Should've known better. She stalks off.

Eventually Uncle Vernon returns to the living room to read his newspaper and calm down.

Dorea drafts and discards a variety of plots to get him to spill.

That evening, after returning home from work, Uncle Vernon knocks on Dorea's cupboard.

...Okay. She opens the door warily.

"...so, Dorea, about this cupboard. Your aunt and I have been thinking... you're really getting a bit big for it... we think it might be nice if you moved into Dudley's second bedroom."

Well. It's true, it won't be that much longer before she literally can't fit in it. 

"Alright."

"So—you can move your things there," he says, then turns around and goes off somewhere.

--Okay. 

She moves her things. There are a bit more of them than the Dursleys probably realize, sparkly rocks found on the schoolyard and cheap pretties bought with spare change they'd never notice missing. She is careful to keep them hidden among the ratty hand-me-downs as she brings everything upstairs. At least Dudley's second bedroom will have lots of hiding places.

From the other room comes the sound of Dudley bawling at his mother, "I don't want her in there... I need that room... make her get out..."

Ugh. She has no sympathy whatsoever.

He screams, whacks his father with his Smelting stick, is sick on purpose, kicks his mother, and throws his tortoise through the greenhouse roof, all to no avail; his parents don't budge.

Poor tortoise.

They don't bother Dorea, and are somewhat subdued the next morning. When mail arrives, Vernon tells Dudley to go get it, and he goes without complaining...

...only to cry, "There's three letters for her now! 'Ms. D. Potter, The Smallest Bedroom, 4 Privet Drive—"

...She giggles, quietly, where none of them can hear.

Vernon yelps and leaps from his seat to run down the hall after Dudley. There is a brief sound of a scuffle, but Vernon emerges victorious, holding the three letters in his hand. He cuts it up in little pieces and throws them all away, with a self-satisfied smile.

...Does he really think it's going to stop, at this point?

Perhaps not; he spends the rest of the morning looking frazzled and even a day at work complaining about everyone else isn't enough to lift his spirits.

Then he's not as stupid as he could be, she supposes.

There are twelve letters the next morning.

Pffffffft. Maybe she should be ashamed of how much she's enjoying Uncle Vernon's suffering. She isn't.

He adopts that look on his face he gets when he makes up his mind about something. "Petunia, I'm not going to work today." And he saunters off to the garage without giving anyone explanations for this behaviour.

...This is not going to end well.

He returns from the garage carrying some planks of wood, nails, and a hammer.

Dorea should probably be making herself unobtrusive but really this is too much of a trainwreck to look away from.

He starts working on something in the living room.

She peeks in.

He seems to be trying to nail the mail slot shut.

She gets way the hell out of earshot before breaking down into helpless giggles.

Shortly before he's done, Aunt Petunia grabs some fruitcake to bring to her husband, who's been at it for a while.

Enh. Reasonable.

"See," Dorea can hear him explaining to Petunia when she wonders what on Earth he's doing, "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," he says, trying to knock in a nail with the piece of fruitcake Aunt Petunia has just brought him.

It is true that they sent her these letters with no way for her to respond but she's not sure why Uncle Vernon thinks they'll be crazy in a way convenient to him.

On Saturday there are twenty-four letters rolled up and hidden inside each of the two dozen eggs the milkman brings. Vernon spends the day calling the post office and the dairy trying to find someone to complain to.

"Who on Earth wants to talk to you this badly?"

"Someone with more aesthetic discernment than you, clearly."

On Sunday morning, Uncle Vernon sits down at the breakfast table looking tired and rather ill, but happy. "No post on Sundays," he reminds them cheerfully as he spreads marmalade on his newspapers, "no damn letters today—"

Something comes whizzing down the kitchen chimney as he speaks and catches him sharply on the back of the head. Next moment, thirty or forty letters come pelting out of the fireplace like bullets.

Dorea is so not angry at these people anymore. 

"Out! OUT!"

Petunia and Dudley duck and use their arms to protect their faces as they try to dodge the letters and escape the kitchen.

Dorea leaves too. Someday she is going to tell him she got the very first letter and she's really looking forward to the look on his face when she does.

Uncle Vernon locks the kitchen door behind him.

"That does it," he says, trying to speak calmly but pulling great tufts out of his moustache 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!"

--Okay that's actually kind of worrying.

Uncle Vernon hits Dudley round the head when he holds them up trying to pack his television, VCR, and computer in his sports bag, and in ten minutes they're in the car and driving.

While he sniffles quietly in the backseat.

...Uncle Vernon hit Dudley. Dorea thinks she's genuinely scared now.

They drive. And they drive. Even Aunt Petunia doesn't dare ask where they were going. Every now and then Uncle Vernon takes a sharp turn and drives in the opposite direction for a while. "Shake 'em off... shake 'em off," he mutters whenever he does this.

They don't stop to eat or drink all day. By nightfall Dudley's howling. He's never had such a bad day in his life. He's hungry, he missed five television programs he wanted to see, and he's never gone so long without blowing up an alien on his computer. Uncle Vernon stops at last outside a gloomy-looking hotel on the outskirts of a big city. Dudley and Dorea have to share a room with twin beds and damp, musty sheets.

Dorea doesn't sleep very well.

Dudley snores loudly.

That really doesn't help.

Uncle Vernon wakes them up at dawn and drags them to eat stale cornflakes and cold tinned tomatoes on toast for breakfast in the morning.

Where did Uncle Vernon even get stale cornflakes?

The terrible hotel they're staying at.

They've just finished when the owner of the hotel comes over to their table. "'Scuse me, but is one of you Ms. D. Potter? Only I got about an ’undred of these at the front desk." She holds up a letter so they can read the green ink address:

Ms. D. Potter
Room 17
Railview Hotel
Cokeworth

"That's me, but Uncle Vernon isn't going to let me have them."

"I'll take them," he says simply, and follows the woman to the front desk.

"Too much to hope this would make him give up," she mutters.

Yep.

Uncle Vernon pays and leads them to the car—no sign of the letters—and drives them for several hours still, into the middle of a forest, to the middle of a plowed field, halfway across a suspension bridge, and to the top of a multilevel parking garage. Finally, they reach the coast, where he parks, exits and locks them all inside the car, and disappears.

"Daddy's gone mad, hasn't he?" he asks Aunt Petunia.

...She's in agreement with Dudley about something, this is deeply weird.

"Perhaps," she says hesitantly. "I'll mention something when he comes back..."

It starts to rain, great drops beating on the roof of the car.

Dudley snivels. "It's Monday," he tells his mother. "The Great Humberto's on tonight. I want to stay somewhere with a television."

Odds of that would be...no.

But presently Uncle Vernon returns, smiling and carrying a long, thin package. He ignores Petunia's pleas and says, "Found the perfect place! Come on, everyone out!" He seems oblivious to the heavy drops of rain pelting his face.

Ugh. It's cold and wet and even the cupboard was better than this.

It's very cold outside the car. Uncle Vernon points at what looks like a large rock way out at sea. Perched on top of the rock is the most miserable little shack one could imagine. One thing's certain, there is no television in there.

"Storm forecast for tonight!" says Uncle Vernon gleefully, clapping his hands together. "And this gentleman's kindly agreed to lend us his boat!"

A toothless old man comes ambling up to them, pointing, with a rather wicked grin, at an old rowboat bobbing in the iron-gray water below them.

"I've already got us some rations," says Uncle Vernon, "so all aboard!"

She's not sure she wants to know what he thinks of as rations at this point.

It's freezing in the boat. Icy sea spray and rain creep down their necks and a chilly wind whips their faces. After what seem like hours they reach the rock, where Uncle Vernon, slipping and sliding, leads the way to the broken-down house.

The inside is horrible; it smells strongly of seaweed, the wind whistles through the gaps in the wooden walls, and the fireplace is damp and empty. There are only two rooms.

Uncle Vernon's rations turn out to be a bag of chips each and four bananas. He tries to start a fire but the empty chip bags just smoke and shrivel up.

"Could do with some of those letters now, eh?" he says cheerfully.

He's in a very good mood, probably thinking nobody stands a chance of reaching them here in a storm to deliver mail. 

Because that logic works so well when these people can put letters in eggs.

As night falls, the promised storm blows up around them. Spray from the high waves splatter the walls of the hut and a fierce wind rattles the filthy windows. Aunt Petunia finds a few mouldy blankets in the second room and makes up a bed for Dudley on the moth-eaten sofa. She and Uncle Vernon go off to the lumpy bed next door, and Dorea's left to find the softest bit of floor she can and to curl up under the thinnest, most ragged blanket.

Aaaaauugh.

Well.

She knows better than to complain out loud.

The storm rages more and more ferociously as the night goes on. Dudley's snores are drowned by the low rolls of thunder that start near midnight.

It'll soon be her birthday.

And then Dorea can hear something creak outside...

Happy birthday to meeee~

Creaking from outside isn't that unexpected, all things considered.

Is that the sea, slapping hard on the rock like that? And what's that funny crunching noise? Is the rock crumbling?

--No that sounds like footsteps.

One minute 'til midnight. Fifty-nine, fifty-eight, fifty-seven...

She's paying way more attention to the footsteps than the time.

No more footsteps. Those noises... could be creaking wood but could also just be the wind.

Someone leaving letters they'll find in the morning?

...three... two... one...

BOOM (from the door), and the whole shack shivers as someone knocks to come in.

Dorea considers the letter, considers what Uncle Vernon has been doing to them, and goes to open the door.

And Dudley jerks awake. "Where's the cannon?"

And on the other side of the wall is the largest man Dorea's ever seen. His face is almost completely hidden by a long, shaggy mane of hair and a wild, tangled beard, but one can make out his eyes, glinting like black beetles under all the hair. He looks down at Dorea when the girl opens the door.

There's a crash behind them and Uncle Vernon comes skidding into the room. He's holding a rifle in his hands—now they know what had been in the long, thin package he brought with them.

"Who's there?" he shouts—and freezes in terror at the sight of the giant.

She grins up at the man--she hasn't turned around to see the rifle--and says brightly, "Hi! Are you from the school! I tried to send an acceptance, but there wasn't a return address. And I don't know what the letter meant by owl."

He grins. "Aye—Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper o' Keys an' Grounds at Hogwarts. An' they meant an owl, yeh know, bird, yea small, flies at night." He squeezes through the door. "Couldn't make us a cup o' tea, could yeh?" he asks in Uncle Vernon's general direction. "It's not been an easy journey..."

"People don't usually keep those as pets," she observes. "At least people who aren't witches or wizards. Was I meant to catch one? Were my parents a witch and a wizard, d'you know? I think your system wasn't set up very well for anyone who doesn't already know it."

Blink. "Doesn't already know it?" He strides over to the sofa where Dudley sits frozen with fear. "Budge up, yeh great lump."

Dudley squeaked and ran to hide behind his mother.

Who's crouching, terrified, behind Uncle Vernon.

"No. I wasn't even sure the letter was real, at first, but I figured the fact that you knew I lived in the cupboard under the stairs was decent evidence. I let Uncle Vernon know about the second letter when it arrived, in case he knew something, and he promptly panicked and tried to escape them."

That breaks his silence spell. "What?!" And fueled by this: "I demand that you leave at once, sir! You are in private property and not welcome!"

"Uncle Vernon, do you really think he cares?"

He turns a smile at her then reaches over the back of the sofa, jerks the gun out of Uncle Vernon's hands, bends it into a knot as easily as if it was made of rubber, and throws it into a corner of the room.

Uncle Vernon makes a noise like a mouse that's been trodded on.

He turns back to Dorea. "Yeh's grown, lass! You was only a baby last I saw yeh!"

"You met me when I was a baby?"

"Aye. I brought yeh ter these muggles' doorstep meself. Oh, an' before I forget—a very happy birthday to yeh. Got summat fer yeh here—I mighta sat on it at some point, but it’ll taste all right."

From an inside pocket of his black overcoat he pulls a slightly squashed box.

"...Thank you," she says, slightly dubious, and accepts the box. She opens it.

It contains an enormous, sticky chocolate cake with Happy Birthday Dorea written on it in green icing.

...Are those tears? She should not be crying over this. It's just a cake.

...But she's never had a real birthday cake before, and--it's got her name on it.

"Thank you," she manages, more sincere this time.

He beams. "What about that tea then, eh?" he says, rubbing his hands together. "I'd not say no ter summat stronger if yeh've got it, mind."

His eyes fall on the empty grate with the shriveled chip bags in it and he snorts. He gets up from the couch and bends down over the fireplace; they can't see what he's doing but when he draws back a second later, there's a roaring fire there. It fills the whole damp hut with flickering light and Dorea can feel the warmth wash over her.

She beams at him.

Uncle Vernon honestly looks terrified almost out of his trousers. He's decided huddling close to his family in a half-defiant stance is the best he can do.

The giant sits back down on the sofa, which sags under his weight, and begins taking all sorts of things out of the pockets of his coat: a copper kettle, a squashy package of sausages, a poker, a teapot, several chipped mugs, and a bottle of some amber liquid that he takes a swig from before starting to make tea.

"So what's Hogwarts like? Where can I get the things the list said? ...Is there some kind of scholarship fund, there's no way the Dursleys will pay for it."

"Yeh'll see Hogwarts when yeh get there, but yeh can get yer things in Diagon Alley, o' course. An' Hogwarts is free, the Ministry of Magic pays fer it."

"Do they pay for the supplies, too?"

"No, but that part yeh can use yer money."

"My money?"

"Aye, the money yer parents left yeh."

Dudley twitches, staring at the cake covetously.

She scoots it a little farther away from him.

"I don't know anything about my parents. Did they really die in a car crash?"

"—a car crash? Merlin's beard, why would yeh think such a thing?"

"Because that's what the Dursleys told me."

"You what?!" He roars to the cowering Dursleys. "James and Lily Potter dead in a car crash! That's outrageous! But wait—no owls, no Diagon Alley—did they not tell yeh anythin' about, about anythin'?!"

"No."

"No! Enough! I forbid you!"

"Ah shut up, Dursley, she's read her letter already—but ter think yeh'd never told her—surely yeh noticed summat was, well, diff'rent about yeh?" he says, directing that last part to Dorea.

"Yeah, but Uncle Vernon always yells a lot when weird things happen, so I've never been able to ask about it."

"An', an' they wouldn't give yeh yer letters, eh? And yeh got one anyway?"

"The day the first one showed up Uncle Vernon sent me to get the mail and I hid it because I knew he wouldn't let me keep it."

"You—you—"

"Did yeh think, what, Hogwarts'd jus'—forget about her? After ev'rything?"

"The letter was mine, Uncle Vernon. You can't keep me away from what my parents left me just because you hate me."

To Hagrid: "What do you mean everything?"

"Well. Yer a witch, Dorea, an' a thumpin' good'un, I'd say, once yeh've been trained up a bit. With a mum an' dad like yours, what else would yeh be? An' yer famous. Ev'ryone in our world knows yer name."

"Really!?"

"Aye—"

"She's not going."

She shoots him an incredulous look.

"I'd like ter see a great muggle like you stop her," Hagrid scoffs.

"We swore when we took her in we'd put a stop to that rubbish," says Uncle Vernon, "swore we'd stamp it out of her! Witch indeed!"

"Wait, so that's why you made me sleep in a cupboard and shouted at me whenever the subject of magic came up?"

"Of course. Of course we knew you'd be that, and of course you wouldn't stop! How could you, my dratted sister being what she was? Oh, she got a letter just like that and disappeared off to that—that school—and came home every vacation with her pockets full of frog spawn, turning teacups into rats. I was the only one who saw her for what she was—a freak! But for my mother and father, oh no, it was Lily this and Lily that, they were proud of having a witch in the family!" She stops to draw a deep breath and then goes ranting on. It seems she`s been wanting to say all this for years. "Then she met that Potter at school and they left and got married and had you, and of course I knew you'd be just the same, just as strange, just as, as—abnormal—and then, if you please, she went and got herself blown up and we got landed with you!"

"Aunt Petunia, I've read enough books to know keeping your niece in a cupboard isn't normal."

"Neither are you."

"I'm not the one who's obsessed with normality."

"And in spite of it all you're still—that," she spits.

"Enough!"

Dorea flinches and drops her eyes.

He turns to Dorea and says, in a low voice, "I never expected this. I had no idea, when Dumbledore told me there might be trouble gettin' hold of yeh, how much yeh didn't know." He bites his lip. "Ah, Dorea, I don' know if I'm the right person ter tell yeh—but someone's gotta—yeh can't go off ter Hogwarts not knowin' about yer parents an', an' ev'rything—"

"--Yeah. You said I was famous, why am I famous?"

He throws a dirty look at the Dursleys. "Well, it's best yeh know as much as I can tell yeh—mind, I can't tell yeh everythin', it’s a great myst'ry, parts of it..." He stares into the fire for a few seconds, and then says, "It begins, I suppose, with—with a person called—but it's incredible yeh don't know his name, everyone in our world knows—"

"I only recently found out your world existed!"

"Aye, I know. Jus'—I don' like sayin' the name if I can help it. No one does."

"Why not?"

"Gulpin' gargoyles, Dorea, people are still scared. Blimey, this is difficult. See, there was this wizard who went... bad. As bad as you could go. Worse. Worse than worse. His name was..." He stops.

She waits.

Eventually: "Alright—Voldemort." Hagrid shudders. "Don' make me say it again. Anyway, this—this wizard, about twenty years ago now, started lookin' fer followers. Got 'em, too—some were afraid, some just wanted a bit o’ his power, 'cause he was gettin' himself power, all right. Dark days, Dorea. Didn't know who ter trust, didn't dare get friendly with strange wizards or witches... terrible things happened. He was takin' over. 'Course, some stood up to him—an' he killed 'em. Horribly. One o' the only safe places left was Hogwarts. Reckon Dumbledore's the only one You-Know-Who was afraid of. Didn't dare try takin' the school, not jus' then, anyway."

"--Oh."

"Now, yer mum an' dad were as good a witch an' wizard as I ever knew. Head boy an' girl at Hogwarts in their day! Suppose the myst'ry is why You-Know-Who never tried to get 'em on his side before ...probably knew they were too close ter Dumbledore ter want anythin' ter do with the Dark Side.

"Maybe he thought he could persuade 'em... maybe he just wanted 'em outta the way. All anyone knows is, he turned up in the village where you was all living, on Halloween ten years ago. You was just a year old. He came ter yer house an'—an'—"

Hagrid suddenly pulls out a very dirty, spotted handkerchief and blows his nose with a sound like a foghorn. 

"...I wish I could remember them."

He nods. "Sorry," he says. "But it's that sad—I knew 'em, yeh'd be proud o' bein' their kid, an' nicer people yeh couldn't find—anyway...

"You-Know-Who killed 'em. An' then—an' this is the real myst'ry of the thing—he tried to kill you, too. Wanted ter make a clean job of it, I suppose, or maybe he just liked killin' by then. But he couldn't do it. Never wondered how you got that mark on yer forehead? That was no ordinary cut. That's what yeh get when a powerful, evil curse touches yeh—took care of yer mum an' dad an' yer house, even—but it didn't work on you, an' that's why yer famous, Dorea. No one ever lived after he decided ter kill 'em, no one except you, an' he'd killed some o' the best witches an' wizards of the age—the McKinnons, the Bones, the Prewetts—an' you was only a baby, an' you lived."

She reaches up to rub at the scar. "That's amazing," she says softly.

"Took yeh from the ruined house myself, on Dumbledore's orders. Brought yeh ter this lot..."

"Load of old tosh," says Uncle Vernon. He's glaring at Hagrid and his fists are clenched. 

"Why are you still participating in this conversation?"

He glares at her, now. "Now, you listen here, girl," he snarls, "I accept there's something strange about you, probably nothing a good beating wouldn't have cured—and as for all this about your parents, well, they were weirdos, no denying it, and the world's better off without them in my opinion—asked for all they got, getting mixed up with these wizarding types—just what I expected, always knew they'd come to a sticky end—"

Hagrid leaps from the sofa and draws a battered pink umbrella from inside his coat. Pointing this at Uncle Vernon like a sword, he says, "I'm warning you, Dursley—I'm warning you—one more word..."

"Do you have any sense of self-preservation?"

Seems like he does—he falls silent and flattens himself against a wall.

"That's better," says Hagrid, breathing heavily and sitting back down on the sofa, which this time sags right down to the floor. 

"Do you have anything to cut the cake with?"

"Oh, aye." He has cutlery!

Hooray! She is disproportionately delighted by the cake. It's delicious but perhaps not quite enough to merit her enthusiasm.

He beams. "Anywho, that's—not all there is ter tell. I should get it all out."

"...Okay."

"So after that day, You-Know-Who... disappeared. Vanished. Same night he tried ter kill you. Makes yeh even more famous. That's the biggest myst'ry, see... he was gettin' more an' more powerful—why'd he go?"

"...Maybe my parents did something?"

"Maybe. Who knows? They're gone, an' you ain't. An'...

"Some say You-Know-Who died. Codswallop, in my opinion. Dunno if he had enough human left in him to die. Some say he's still out there, bidin' his time, like, but I don' believe it. People who was on his side came back ter ours. Some of 'em came outta kinda trances. Don' reckon they could've done if he was comin' back.

"Most of us reckon he's still out there somewhere but lost his powers. Too weak to carry on. 'Cause somethin' about you finished him, Dorea. There was somethin' goin' on that night he hadn't counted on—I dunno what it was, no one does—but somethin' about you stumped him, all right."

Hagrid looks at her with warmth and respect blazing in his eyes.

She swallows. She straightens.

"I'll do my best to live up to that."

"She's not going," Vernon repeats, having found his courage somewhere in his back pocket again, "and that's final."

"She's gonna do whatever she wants ter do and yeh can't stop her."

He sips from his tea.

"Watch me if I can't. We're gonna lock her up—no meals—only comes out for school—"

He stands up again and points his pink umbrella at Vernon. "Shut. Up. I'll know if yeh do anythin' o' the sort an' I'll make yeh regret it if yeh do."

And he shoots sparkles from his umbrella at the ground directly in front of the Dursleys, causing a small explosion.

Dudley squeals and runs into the room his parents had been using.

They follow, their courage completely gone.

"Thank you," she says, heartfelt.

He smiles. "Yer quite welcome."

"I always thought they just hated me because they resented me for being dumped on them. I never would have guessed--"

"Never? Not even with all the—strange things? Things appearin' where they shouldn', strange happenings around yeh that yeh couldn' quite explain?"

"It's not like I was--making them happen on purpose."

"But yeh musta known yeh were special."

"--Well, yeah. But not in a way the Dursleys would recognize."

He shakes his head. "Yeh'll do jus' fine, jus' yeh wait." Then he yawns hugely. "But we can wait, tomorrow's a big day."

"Oh?"

"We're goin' ter Diagon Alley, where yeh'll buy yer things."

"Ooh."

"But now we'll sleep, it's late an' I'm tired."

"Yeah."

"So—g'night!"

"Goodnight."

"—oh, I almost forgot—" From a pocket inside his overcoat he pulls an owl—a real, live, rather ruffled-looking owl—a long quill, and a roll of parchment. He sits back down from a moment and, with his tongue between his teeth, scribbles a note that Dorea can read upside down:

Dear Professor Dumbledore,

Given Dorea her letter.
Taking her to buy his things tomorrow. Weather's horrible.
Hope you're Well.

Hagrid

He rolls up the note, gives it to the owl, which clamps it in its beak, goes to the door, and throws the owl out into the storm.

"...Were they okay in there?"

"The owl? Aye, it's warm an' snuggly, he's prob'ly upset that I made 'im go out in this storm."

"...Fair."

Hagrid does not take long to fall asleep after that. The shack is much warmer with the magic fire over there.

Yeah. Zzzzzzzz...

She will wake up to the sounds of an owl rapping on the window.

...She muzzily blinks sleep out of her eyes and goes to open the window.

It's a bright and clear day out, the storm having abated completely. The giant is still asleep on a collapsed sofa, snoring.

The owl swoops in and drops a newspaper it had been holding in its beak on top of Hagrid, who doesn't wake up. It then flutters onto the floor and begins to attack Hagrid's coat.

"...Hagrid?"

"Pay him," Hagrid grunts into the sofa.

"How?"

"He wants payin' fer deliverin' the paper. Look in the pockets."

...She rummages in the coat pockets.

Hagrid's coat seems to be made of nothing but pockets—bunches of keys, slug pellets, balls of string, peppermint humbugs, teabags... there, a handful of strange-looking coins.

"Give him five Knuts," says Hagrid sleepily. 

"Which ones are those?"

"The little bronze ones."

She extracts five bronze coins and gives them to the owl.

It bows its little owl head and takes off. Hagrid yawns loudly, sits up, and stretches. "Best be off, Dorea, lots ter do today, gotta get up ter London an' buy all yer stuff fer school."

"Okay. Leftover cake for breakfast?"

"Sounds good!" He draws himself up to his full height and stretches, loudly cracking his joints.

If the cake is less delicious it's not by much. Mm, cake. She continues to be even more delighted by it than is reasonable.

And he's very delighted about her delight.

"Yeh ready?" he asks when she's done. The Dursleys haven't emerged from their bedroom.

"Can we go to the Dursleys' to get the rest of my stuff? The Dursleys didn't let me have much worth going back for but I managed to accumulate a collection of pretty rocks."

"—get it? An' put it where?"

"...Point."

"Yeh'll be back there ter get it before goin' ter Hogwarts, don't worry."

"Okay."

"Come on, then."

Hagrid steps out onto the rock. The sky's quite clear now and the sea gleams in the sunlight. The boat Uncle Vernon hired is still there, with a lot of water in the bottom after the storm.

"How'd you get here?"

"Flew."

"Ooh, really?"

"Yeah—but we’ll go back in this. Not s'pposed ter use magic now I've got yeh."

"What? Why not?"

"We-ell... I'm not s'upposed ter use magic at all—long story—but I got special permission fer this."

"That's terrible, why not?"

"Oh, that's in the past, best not ter go there."

He settles in the boat.

"...Okay." She also gets into the boat.

"Seems a shame ter row, though," he says, giving Dorea a sideways look. "If I was ter—er—speed things up a bit, would yeh mind not mentionin' it at Hogwarts?"

"Mum's the word!"

Hagrid pulls out the pink umbrella again, taps it twice on the side of the boat, and they speed off toward land.

Awesome.