Chapter Text
Harry woke to a woman’s shriek and the slam of his cupboard. He groaned and uncurled himself. He was getting too big. No matter how tightly he squeezed into the corner behind the cleaning supplies, there just wasn’t enough room anymore for him to remain unnoticed. And now his aunt had touched him again.
She couldn’t see him, but she did feel him and the cold that surrounded him. Despite their initial troubles, they’d come to an understanding about that quite a few years ago. He could remain in the cupboard as long as his aunt and uncle could keep their drinks and cleaning supplies in there as well. Uncle liked his beers cold but unfrozen, and the cupboard kept them slightly colder than the fridge ever did.
But their understanding only went so far, and direct touch was definitely not included. Harry was allowed to stay as long as they could look the other way and pretend he wasn’t there at all. That would not work if his aunt bumped against invisible fabric or hands every time she needed something from the cupboard.
Maybe he should move to the crawlspace below the floor. It was already quite cold in there, so they might not notice him at all. Or he could make a little space for himself in the attic. His family didn’t go there often anyway.
But he liked his cupboard. He didn’t want to move to the big dusty attic where he wouldn’t even be able to hear the television. And he definitely didn’t relish the thought of the stone darkness of the crawlspace, with its pipes and plumbing that made creepy noises.
Most of all he didn’t want to move somewhere where his aunt and uncle could really forget him. Here in this cupboard, they pretended he wasn’t there, but they both knew. Even Dudley knew, scared as he was of the cupboard. If he moved out, they could forget all about Harry.
He wanted them to know he was there.
He liked the taste of them, when their emotions changed from contentment to fear and dread when they passed his little door.
Maybe he would just stay, and let his aunt learn where not to put the drinks if she didn’t want to touch him.
Dudley was only scared of him when he was in his cupboard. When he followed his cousin to school on those days that he felt like it, Dudley could be quite nice. He liked to brag to his friends about his ‘ghost friend’. He’d let Harry scare them for him if they forgot who was the leader of their little group.
No one ever messed with Dudley Dursley, for those who tried were soon overwhelmed by waking nightmares and utter despair.
Harry wasn’t sure if Dudley realised they were cousins. He didn’t blame him. It had been such a long time since his cousin could see him. But sometimes he did feel sad about it. He would have liked to play with Dudley and his friends.
On those days that he didn’t feel like going to school but wanted to be out of the house regardless, Harry wandered the neighbourhood. He’d smile at growling dogs and hissing cats, startle a few unseeing passersby, and play hide and seek with Mrs Figg and her friends.
Mrs Figg was the only person in the neighbourhood who could see him. She always screamed when she did, and then ran to her house. Soon after, her friends in the red clothes would arrive to look for him.
It was always fun, until they actually found him that is. The moment they saw him they sent their pets after him, and they were far too scary for the game to remain fun for long.
Harry’s life changed one day a few months after he’d decided to stay in the cupboard. It was on one of those dreary days with a deceivingly light misting of rain. That lovely perfect weather that would give everyone such a lovely melancholy taste.
It was on that day as he decided to leave a little early to wander the streets before school that he found a stack of letters on the doormat. Thinking himself a rather polite ghost, he drifted to the kitchen to put them on the table, only to stop halfway there as he read the address of one envelope made of heavy paper.
Mr H. Potter
The Cupboard under the Stairs
4 Privet Drive
Little Whinging
Surrey
He hadn’t even opened the letter and he’d already learned something wonderous. His name. Harry Potter. He knew he was a Harry but he never learned his last name before he became invisible.
Potter. What a beautiful name. Much better than Dursley or Polkiss or Figg.
He quickly dropped the other letters on the kitchen table before leaving the house. He relished in the cold misty rain, but frowned when he realised the water might mess up his letter. He found shelter in the garden shed, where finally he opened the envelope to read the rest.
HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
Twice, thrice, he read the letter. From Dear Mr. Potter, to the supply list. Magic, that’s what it meant. He would learn magic.
As long as he figured out what the letter meant by await your owl and found a place where he could buy a wand and a cauldron.
Shouldn’t be much harder than getting a teacher to grade work made by a ghost.
He already had the robes, so he could cross that off the list. Although… maybe he should get some extra? They did say he need three.
He put thoughts of robes aside when he reached the correct door, and rang the doorbell. Harry had realised there was only one person he could ask about all the other stuff. Mrs Figg had many friends who had sticks he now realised were wands.
The woman screamed when she opened the door, so Harry quickly said, “I don’t want to play hide and seek today Mrs Figg.” She stopped screaming, but became even paler than she already was. He saw her hand shaking against the door-handle. “I just got a letter from Hogwarts and I thought you might be able to tell me where I can get a wand?”
“So you… are Harry Potter?” Harry smiled brightly at the use of his surname. Mrs Figg flinched.
“Yes! That is my name.”
Mrs Figg had needed a long time to calm down when she woke up on the couch, Harry standing over her. He’d brought her inside after she fainted, worrying all the while if he should do something to wake her up. What did you do with people who fainted? Were you supposed to shake them? Kiss them? He’d read a story like that once.
She’d woken up by herself before he could decide which to try, and promptly started screaming again. But now she sat on her couch with one of her hissing cats in her lap, and was finally listening to him.
“And you thought you should ask me where you could buy a wand?”
“Well yes. I couldn’t really ask my aunt, she can’t see me, you see.”
“Ah yes.” She swallowed. “Of course. That would be inconvenient.” The hand she used to pet her cat still shook slightly, but she seemed calmer now. “If it’s alright with you, I’ll call the headmaster. He’d be… delighted to realise you were… alive and well.”
“Well I’m pretty sure I’m a ghost. But I am definitely well.”
“A ghost,” she said faintly, “Of course. Let me go call him then.”
“I’m so glad to see you well, my boy.” Headmaster Dumbledore had replaced Mrs Figg on the couch. Mrs Figg was in the kitchen, maybe making tea. He was old, with a very long white beard and bright blue eyes behind halfmoon glasses. He also tasted very very sour.
“When you disappeared from your aunt’s home so soon after you were left there, we feared the worst.” He looked sombre, eyes downcast, lips twisted into a frown. But when Harry tried a little taste again he was still sour. Horrible.
“But I never left my aunt’s house,” he said, voice perhaps revealing a little of his disappointment at the man’s taste.
“Yes, I can see that now, but at the time we were looking for a little boy, not—”
“A little ghost?”
“Ghost, my boy?”
Harry sat straight, explaining his theory with confidence. “I am invisible and I float.”
The man smiled. “That is true, but I’m afraid you aren’t a ghost exactly.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve met many a ghost in my long life. Ghosts are transparent, you look quite solid to me.” He shook his head. “No, you, my boy, are a dementor.”
The sound of something breaking came from the kitchen. He wondered if Mrs Figg was alright, she’d been back there a long time. But that wasn’t important.
“Is a dementor a kind of ghost?”
The headmaster patted his beard in thought. “Not exactly. The ministry classifies ghosts as spirits, while dementors are classified as non-beings.” He frowned. “But I think some people fit non-beings into the spirit classification as well. I’d have to do some research to be certain.”
A silence fell as both contemplated their various thoughts. Harry’s mind was stuck on one particular word. “What does non-being mean? I am, so how can I not be.”
“Ah.” Dumbledore’s hand stilled on his beard. “I’m finding myself more out of my depth with every question you ask, Harry. To be honest I’ve never heard of a human becoming a dementor before. You are quite unique in your circumstance.”
“Are dementors allowed at Hogwarts?”
Dumbledore coughed. “Not traditionally no.” His lips twisted into a smile. “But I’m sure we can figure something out.”