Chapter Text
P. S: me forgot to mention this work was inspired by this:
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Harry Potter got a Howler!
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“Family is just a frame around your favourite people, and it's loud, it's messy, it's imperfect – and even so, it is and will always be; we don't want to give it up for anything.”
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× •-•-•-•⟮ ◆ ⟯•-•-•-• ×
The Great Hall thrummed with its usual morning chatter. Breakfast was moving along with the same old, familiar Monday-morning gloom.
Children and young teens alike were trying to fuel up before classes, while message owls glided overhead, carrying packages in their talons and envelopes in their beaks, delivering last-minute parcels to sleepy students.
And amounts, the swelling and hopping flow of chatter, was a boy, aged eleven in the middle of his own breakfast. With a riot of wild, curly raven hair atop his head, eyes that outshone emeralds, lovely tanned golden skin, and perfectly swollen cheeks that inflicted cuteness aggression on anyone who came within an inch of him, the boy’s name was:
Harry James Potter.
The chosen one, the little babe, who at only one-years of age survived the vicious attack that took place on the night of:
October, 31st (Hallowe'en) 1981, from the forbidden killing curse that almost took the lives of his parents.
Harry was halfway through buttering his toast when an unfamiliar barn-red thingy was bomb-dropped unannounced, on top of his plate by his snowy owl, Hedwig.
The eleven-year-old stopped what he was doing to pick up the strange item.
Once he saw what it was, he questioned, “A letter?” He picked it up, fingers pressing onto the bright color, eyebrows stitched together in confusion. “Why would anyone be sending me letters?” His fingers moved along the grain of the paper; it was textured upon touch and sturdy as well, with a rough—thin twine around it, along with gold-swirling decor etched into the border, he marveled at how brilliantly made the envelope was. “I'll save the paper for later,” he thought, considering using it for cards or maybe trying to fold it in such a way that it could function as a small box, Mmhmm, he'll see what he can do. He puts the letter aside, planning to look at it after class ends. Once he regains clarity of mind, he becomes aware of the absence of voices around him—(well, if he excludes the other voices coming from the other houses' tables)—for the entire Gryffindor table has fallen into a state of motionless silence.
Everyone was staring at him, watching him, as if they were expecting him to do something.
He tilted his head. “Is something wrong? Did I do something wrong?”
The ginger puppy beside him leaned in so swiftly that Harry worried his shoulder might dislocate, much like his sister Noah's leg when he runs. The boy was dotted with freckles from nose to ear, red hair, a nest of slick, laid-back strands, moonlight skin luminous in the illusion of the great hall's light, “Mate. That’s a Howler,” he whispered in a shrill tone. “You got a Howler!” His eyes, blue as the warm country sky, were wide with horror, irises flickering between the red envelope and Harry. Ronaldo Weasley was the boy Harry had met on the train after his parents dropped him off.
“A Howler, what's that?” he looked at the red letter. “Is this not a normal envelope?” Harry wanted to ask the ginger boy what it meant, but the words never reached his lips.
“A HOWLER!?” exclaimed a girl, her voice unusually high-pitched, yet somehow low.
Harry pivoted his head to the sound. He saw that smart girl from earlier, the one with pretty brown hair and lovely golden-brown skin, along with large, white teeth.
Hermione Granger. Provide his memory.
Quill in her hand, the tip hovering over the paper in mid-stroke, she was looking directly at him, her pale-pink lips downward in a small frown. “What did you do?” she asked, her voice a hissing blend of concern and disappointment.
Too bad her voice and tone were a complete antithesis of her looks.
“What on earth did you do to get a howler so early in the year? Did you disappoint your parents so badly?”
“Hey! Whatta go cruising his spirit!” protested Ron.
Harry's lips thinned. “Ah yeah, so, what's a Howler?”
Ron gasped at him like a gaping crawfish-(if a crawfish could gape)-as if he had seen something, something so bizarre, like the sky was green or the earth was flat-(much like Harry was when he first heard that he was a wizard). “You don't know what a howler is?”
“No.”
“Of course he doesn’t,” Hermione cut in. “He grew up in the Muggle world.”
Ron threw his hands up. “But his parents are some of the most powerful wizards in the entire wizarding world!”
“But he grew up in the Muggle world,” Hermione repeated, as if it were a simple fact lifted straight from a textbook.
“But—” Ron waved his hands like a maniac, completely at a loss.
It almost made Harry giggle, but he bit it back, not wanting to seem rude.
The orange-haired boy dragged a hand down his face. “Just… just brilliant, all right? Well, you’re going to find out the hard way now.”
Harry blinked at him frowning, “what's so bad about this?” he asked, jerking the red-envelope upright, Hermione lips looks as if she wanted to respond, but— (Harry took note of how she played with her fingers, stretching and contracting them like dough.)—she seemed hesitant?
Why was she nervous?
“The only easy way to explain it is that it’s a letter that... shouts...”
Harry blinked. “Shouts?”
“Yeah,” she said quietly, then added, “...when you open it.”
Harry gulped.
The words seemed to settle in the air like something heavy had just been placed on the table between them.
Harry’s eyes flickered back to the red envelope in his hand, still gleaming under the morning light. The little twinkle reflecting upon the wax seal had an almost glittering touch to it. Oh, oh no! Why did he notice the seal!? Behind him, the voices faded into a mist of bubbles. He did not truly listen to what they were saying—(perhaps they were screaming, laughing?)—his ear tuning out as he continued to stare at the thing—the howler—in his hand. “Please,” he prayed under his breath, as he flipped it over to see who it was from, though, from his trembling fingers, “Please, Lord, please don't let it be from him, ” it may so appear that he possibly did have a clue on who it is, even if he prayed that his suspicion was false.
The colour drained from his face, when his prediction came true.
“Oh no,” he muttered, voice dropping an octave into panic territory. “Mum said he wasn’t going to send things. He promised. He swore he wouldn't!” Mum...the words still felt so new on his tongue, even after a year.
Harry hesitated, his voice small, edged with fear. “What if I ignored it?” he asked, positively terrified.
Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but Ron intersected.
“Well, if you do, it’s gonna explode, and then it’s gonna shout even more louder.”
Harry’s eyes widened slightly. “Even more louder?” His voice dropped into a very low level on the last sentence, like a hard scrub of a wet rag against a window glass.
“Yeah,” Ron continued, as if this were perfectly reasonable. “It’s best if you open it.”
Harry didn't like that any less
Hermione finally got a chance to speak, shaking her head a little. “As in, It's going to make you hear the message, even if you want it or not,” she said, trying to steady the explanation into something sensible.
The boy's eyes looked at the envelope, then he shot Ron a desperate look.
The young redhead only grimaced back at him with a shrug—and an expression that clearly translated to: Well, better open it, mate. Ignoring it will only make it worse.
Harry swallowed hard, he reached to undo the string holding it together, tugged them loose—Just as he did, the envelope split open like the gates of hell.
Out came the only force or female beta on Earth capable of preventing Harry from becoming a mini-James:
Lily Evans. His godmother—
“HARRY, SWEETHEART, IT’S YOUR AUNTIE!” Lily’s voice thundered through the Great Hall, warm and bright, every inch like a beautiful and proud lioness she is.
“First of all, darling, congratulations—”
“HARRY JAMES POTTER, I AM SO PROUD OF YOU!”James Potter’s roar blasted through from the background.
—and was also the only reason Severus, his mother's hair hadn’t gone white, yet.
“Potter!” Lily snapped. “For Merlin’s sake, let me. SPEAK—”
“YOUNGEST SEEKER IN OVER A CENTURY, HARRY! NOT EVEN I DID THAT! MERLIN’S PANTS, SON, YOU’RE BRILLIANT!”
“James, I swear to the heavens above,” Lily snarled, “I’m hexing you in three seconds if you don’t stop shouting.
IN. MY. BLOODY. EAR!”
“Oh, shut up, Evans!”
“You shut up, POTTER!
The howler began vibrating back and forth, violently, practically shaking itself apart from their childish piter-pater.
But his father and his auntie did. NOT, stop.
“HARRY, I’M COMING TO YOUR FIRST MATCH! AND, AND, AND, I'M BUYING YOU A NEW BROOM! WHAT DO YOU WANT? NIMBUS? FIREBOLT? THUNDERCLAP? SOMETHING ILLEGAL??? Just said the word, I’ll buy it!”
“James, give me that—”
Lily’s voice cracked like thunder did on an unpleasant rainy day, her rage was so vicious it reminded Harry of the time Uncle Pad had-(according to him)- accidentally scraped a line across her favorite porcelain tea set.
The young sire quivered at the thought, his godmother can be scary when angry.
But it was becoming quite clear his father was not able to pick up the obvious signs of an angry redhead, and thus continued to dig his own grave.
“LILY, HE INHERITED MY QUIDDITCH TALENT! TELL SEV!”
“I’m sure he already knows!”
“MY BOY! THAT’S MY BOY! MY PRECIOUS, BRILLIANT SON!”
“He’s not just your son,” Lily hissed. “He’s my godson too, you—James, don’t you dare—STOP WAVING THAT WAND—”
“Yeah, well, no one cares, Evennnnnns—OH—!”
A loud crack erupted inside the howler, followed by James shrieking an oof.
(Yup that's an angry redhead alright.)
“Now look at what you bloody did!!”
“I didn't do anything, Evans really you only saying this to make me look bad in front of my own son, nonetheless, how low of you, Lily, truly low.”
The noirette could practically hear his auntie's eye twitching.
“That’s it,” Lily snapped. “Harry, sweetheart, my dearest apologies, but your father is—”
“DID I MENTION I AM SO BLOODY PROUD OF YOU”
“JAMES!”
“LILY!”
“TOENAIL!”
“MAD-FREAK WICH!”
“DON’T START, POTTER! This—this posture—this whole ridiculous display is because of your stupid, flipping ALPHA COMPLEX. You walk into a room like it owes you bloody money!” Lily yells out.
“FUNNY, coming from you, Evans. You’ve got a superiority complex so loud it announces itself, right to peoples faces.” James spat back.
“Well, at least I don’t go strut about like a pocket-sized war general with delusions of grandeur!”
“…Is that—is that meant to be a Napoleon jab. Evans?”
“If the boots fit.”
“You take that bloody back.”
“Make me."
That one was whispered, like it was threath.
Harry smacked his lips, it would very much be a threat, or could be just a warning, his Aunty Lily was very versatile and creative like that. His Uncle Moony did say she was the scariest thing James had admitted frightened him after his mother.
“Right—because Merlin forbade anyone from forgetting you were top of the class, Evans.”
Came James voice full and exaggerated.
Though it didn’t sound like his sire was scared. But Harry knew, knew he was.
The Howler went quiet for a heartbeat. Then came a sharp clang, like steel on a countertop—or maybe someone’s skull. Who could tell?
Harry definitely couldn't.
Then afterwards, there was a long, heavy silence, as everyone gathered around the Howler—some even leaning over Harry to see what on earth was happening.
Then came out a sharp, frustrated, high pitched voice “BLOODY MARY COCONUT”
Harry whimpered along with many others as the sharpness of his aunt's vocal cords hit his sensitive ears.
“That's not even a bloody insult.” shot back James, although a little slowly this time.
“Is too”
“Is not”
“Is too”
“Is not”
“Is too”
“Is not”
“Is too”
“Is not”
“Stuff your mouth with a toad, Potter!”
James followed right back at her, “Well, you should stuff your mouth with a wank–”
Just as he was finishing his sentence, there was a cracking sound-(again)-followed by a loud, Ufff.
By now, the alpha-pups face was as red as humanly possible. Broadcasting of his godmother and his father bickering like toddlers was not on his morning agenda. He exhaled sharply through his nose, thoroughly done with their antics.
But the howler wasn’t. Finished!!
“LILY, MY SON IS A QUIDDITCH LEGEND! I’LL SHOUT IF I WANT TO!”
“WELL!” Lily screamed right back. “THAT’S TOO GODDAME BAD, BECAUSE I’M ENDING THIS, YOU GREASY BABOON!”
James’s voice instantly turned pleading.
“No, no, wait—Evans, I’m sure we can talk about this like civi—”
And that was the exact moment the howler combusted into a shower of crimson shreds, sizzling down on Harry’s eggs.
***
Harry stared at the ruin of his breakfast, cheeks blazing, before slowly lifting his gaze.
His very frightened doe-like eyes look around the room.
The entire Great Hall was silent.
Watching him.
He lowered his head again and covered his face with both hands, wishing the flagstones would swallow him whole.
Neville cleared his throat gently, trying to be helpful. “Well,” he said, “at least it’s not as bad as my gran’s. Her howlers come with…well...let's just say stuff that should not be fine.”
Harry groaned into his hands.
Hermione snapped her textbook shut just long enough to give him a sympathetic look. “Remind me,” she said crisply, “to decline every invitation you ever send me to your house. For my own health.”
The she-pup, then proceeded to return to her notes.
Harry felt a hand settle on his arm, He looked sideways to see Ron giving him a pitiful look.
“Hey… it’s not that bad, mate,” the redhead offered, “I mean—it could’ve been worse. Probably. Maybe? At least they're proud of yah” He forced an uneasy smile, “Right?” clearly trying to lighten the mood.
Harry managed a small one in return, but the humiliation he felt from the encounter is not the kind to get dissolved easily.
Thanks a lot to this one-year old family.
His vision is glazed with a stinging sensation of liquid, he wants to cry, the shame was too much for him, he had never been this humiliated in his life! He brushes the tears away with a dab of his sleeve, “Great! My entire day is officially ruined and nothing can fix it.”
That is, unit.
he caught the familiar wisp of black robes brushing silently against his back. Before he knew it, a very gentle, cold hand was cupping the curve of his shoulder. That very touch made him feel somewhat relaxed.
Professor Snape—or to Harry, his mother rested one perfectly frosty yet tender hand on Harry’s shoulder. His voice came out as soft, and low, like the swish of a velvet dress on porcelain.
“I did tell them not to be embarrassing,” he murmured, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“And yet,” he sighed, “they persist.”
Harry beamed up at him, cheeks pink but eyes bright as the Gryffindor banner overhead.
Severus looked down at him, Harry’s bright green eyes meeting his own deep-black ones—two storms so different, yet still somehow so alike.
A small, quiet smile made its way to his thin lips—softening his normally hardened features, before he bent down to his knees, the omega cupped the young alphas small, and warmer face in his cooler ones, he brought the boy closer and pressed a gentle kiss to Harry’s forehead.
“I’m very proud of you, dear,” he murmured at last. Slender finders creased the boy's face, in a slow-loving manner.
Harry’s face split even more into that unstoppable, bright grin. “Thanks, Mum.”
Severus blinked ever so slowly at his son, much like a young feline showing affection. Giving the boy a gentle squeeze, he said, “Right then, finish your breakfast now; you’ve got a long day ahead of you.”
“I will!” Harry said, cheekily.
He then withdrew from his son's side and returned to his place at the grand table, beside Professor Quirrell.