Chapter Text
July 23rd, 1996 - Tuesday
It has been a weird year, Harry Potter thought, and it’s not even over yet. The summer had started out as well as it could with the Dursleys, and it was because they were gone most of the time. Dudley always went out the minute Petunia and Vernon left, so once the house was cleaned to their standards, Harry was free until five. Most days would be spent in the gardens with a Discman he had found at a thrift shop twenty minutes from Surrey, light filtering through the trees on the rare occasion the sun was out. Other days were spent at the park on Magnolia Crescent. After the incident with Dudley last summer, it had fallen into disrepair, but Harry had fixed it up to the best of his abilities.
Having actual free time wasn’t a weird thing. That title went to Harry as it usually did. Things were going well enough once he had returned from Hogwarts, but it all went to shite after a week. Harry had been cleaning out the attic at Petunia’s “request” when he first realized something was off. The wizard had no problem walking around the smallest part of the attic, which was at a mere 66 inches, but that Monday, Harry had to hunch.
When Harry climbed down, he grabbed a spare pencil from off his desk and stood with his back to the door where he marked his height. Turning around, Harry realized that he had grown three more inches. The wizard didn’t feel any different, so he chalked it up to being a late bloomer because of his malnourishment and that it was finally catching up. He was still skinny, no amount of food or magic would make him into a musclehead, but skin-and-bones had grown into a slim build. From summers of manual labor and hours of Quidditch, Harry had taken on a runner’s form, all lean muscle, and lightly tanned skin.
Harry wasn’t the only one to have noticed the change either. Vernon wasn’t as quick with a slap, nor was Dudley enthusiastic about getting in his face now that they were nearly the same height. All in all, things were indeed becoming stranger by the minute. Just another day in the life of Harry James Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived.
July 24th, 1996 - Wednesday
Everything hurt. Harry’s back, calves, thighs, hell, even his gums ache. Harry woke up feeling as if Oliver had scheduled a double practice and promptly curled into a ball. The wizard had hoped to stay in bed for most of the day, but when he stumbled downstairs for a glass of water, he found an extensive list of chores waiting for him. Dudley’s laundry, weed the garden, prune the roses, bleach the gutters ? Harry glared at the horribly neat handwriting and set the paper down before he crumpled it.
“Fucking Dursleys,” he swore. He wanted to lie back down and not move for a few days, but it looked like he had other plans. Harry took a shower hoping that the warm water would make him feel better, but afterward, he felt the same.
Each task had him breathing heavy, his chest constricted from pain while the rest of his body protested each movement. The worst one was weeding the garden. Hunched down on the ground as he dug through the dirt, Harry cursed his relatives with everything in him. The wizard was hot and dirty once he finally finished the list and didn’t bother with another shower before trudging up to his room. He collapsed face-first onto the ratty comforter and nuzzled into the pillow with a disgruntled hum, already half-asleep.
July 26th, 1996 - Friday
The pain had become a simple hum in the back of Harry’s mind. His muscles twinged with each chore, but it was easier to ignore today. Harry had been more exhausted the past two days, but waking up this morning, he had realized that some of his energy had returned. The chores were still grueling, but it was slowly improving. Harry had finished mowing the lawn around one and went to take a shower before his relatives returned when he noticed a strange tingling in his gums.
The wizard stripped off his shirt and traced his fingers across shadows on his forearms. Assuming they would wash off in the shower, Harry leaned toward the mirror and pulled his upper lip back to expose his canines. His sharpened canines. They were similar to a vampire’s and just as sharp, which he found out when running a thumb over the point. What in the absolute fuck is going on…
Ordinary people didn’t have fangs, not even wizards.
July 28th, 1996 - Sunday
As the days went by, Harry found himself feeling better every day. With the increase in energy came a strength that Harry didn’t have before. The young wizard had broken a glass this morning because he had gripped it too hard. The glass had shattered with a sharp sound and fallen to the floor, a few shards embedded in his palm. Harry had frozen in surprise before the pain registered, and then he jumped away to get a broom.
Harry gingerly plucked the pieces from his hand after sweeping up the glass before running it under the sink. He watched the blood swirl down the drain, and the cuts heal before his eyes, the skin stitched back together as if nothing happened. That was definitely new.
“Boy, what are you doing?” The wizard whirled around to find Petunia eyeing him warily from the doorway with grocery bags in hand.
“Uh, just washing my hands.” He turned the sink off and wiped his hands, subtly glancing around to make sure there was no excess blood. The Muggle didn’t seem to believe him but didn’t say anything else.
“Put the groceries away and then go to your room; Dudders has friends coming over tonight.” Harry kept his mouth shut and dutifully did as told, all the while flexing his fingers as if expecting the pain to suddenly return. The young man escaped to his room and from Petunia’s questioning gaze where he flopped back onto the bed. Harry winced as it creaked ominously under his weight and ran a hand through his shaggy hair.
The newfound fangs felt strangely familiar inside his mouth, but they cut into him each time his tongue swiped under them. They weren’t too long, less than an inch if he had to guess, but they were sharp and curving. While thinking, Harry bit into his lip carelessly, drawing a hiss from between his teeth as blood filled his mouth. Shit, I’m never gonna get used to this. I mean, who the hell would?