Chapter 51: A Different Life
Disclaimer:
Harry Potter and all of its characters belong to J.K. Rowling.
I own nothing but the original characters I make.
"Dialogue"
'Thoughts'
-Author notes-
Chapter 51: A Different Life
Harry woke slowly. His mind was feeling sluggish and heavy, as if he had been submerged in deep water and was only now rising to the surface.
The ceiling above him was plain white, cracked in one corner, with a faint water stain spreading like a map of an unknown country.
He blinked, trying to remember where he was.
The room was small and simple... a narrow bed, a wooden wardrobe, a single window with ragged curtains that let in pale morning light through numerous holes.
'Home,' he thought. 'I'm home.' And a sensation of relief washed over him.
He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes. His head still felt strange and foggy, as if something important was just out of reach. He tried to grasp it, but it slipped away like smoke the moment he got closer.
'Probably just tired,' he told himself. 'I didn't sleep well.'
He swung his legs out of bed and padded to the bathroom.
The floor was cold against his bare feet, but he ignored the discomfort and splashed water on his face, staring at his reflection in the small, cracked mirror.
A pale face looked back at him...green eyes, messy black hair, a faint scar on his forehead that he had had for as long as he could remember.
It was just an old wound, nothing special.
"Mmmm..." He reached with his fingers and touched it. For some reason, the scar was bothering him this morning.
He couldn't remember if that had happened before. It was definitely strange.
He dressed quickly, pulling on a plain t‑shirt and worn jeans. Everything had to be neat and tidy. Aunt Bella didn't tolerate sloppiness.
A voice rang out from downstairs, sharp and impatient. "Boy! Are you awake? You'd better not be lazing about!"
Harry winced. "Coming, Aunt Bella!" he called back.
He checked himself in the mirror one last time, making sure there were no flaws in his appearance. Aunt Bella was very particular about appearances. If anything was out of place, she would notice, and she would not be pleased.
Satisfied, he hurried out of the room and down the stairs.
The living room was cluttered and was kept dimly lit...the curtains must always be closed, as per his aunt's instructions.
The room was filled with the heavy smell of old furniture and dust. The walls were covered in framed photographs. There were dozens of them, all featuring the same stern‑faced elderly woman in various poses.
Some showed her with cats, others with friends Harry had never met, and a few with people he vaguely recognised but could not name.
There were no pictures of Harry.
He had noticed that a long time ago, but it didn't bother him. Aunt Bella had never been the affectionate type.
She had taken him in when he was seven, rescued him from that awful orphanage, and given him a home. That was enough. He didn't need pictures to know he was part of this house.
He paused by the front window, glancing out at the quiet street. The sun was just rising, casting long shadows across the neat lawns. Everything looked peaceful...everything looked normal.
And then his eyes landed on the house next door.
A large sign stood in the front garden, white with bold red letters: FOR SALE.
Harry frowned. He vaguely remembered that house...there had been a family living there once. He had seen them occasionally, though he had never spoken to them.
They had kept to themselves, and Aunt Bella had always discouraged him from talking to the neighbours.
"What happened to them?" he muttered to himself.
He tried to remember their faces, their names, but his mind was frustratingly blank.
He could picture the house, could recall the faint smell of smoke that had lingered in the air for days after... after what? A fire? Yes, there had been a fire. He remembered seeing the flames, the black smoke pouring from the windows.
But he didn't remember the people.
"Boy! Are you deaf? Get in here!"
Harry shook off his thoughts and hurried into the kitchen.
Arabella Figg stood by the table, her arms crossed, her thin lips pressed into a scowl.
She was a tall, bony woman with grey hair pulled back in a tight bun and small, sharp eyes that missed nothing.
Her housecoat was old and faded, and her slippers made soft scuffing sounds on the linoleum floor.
"You are late again, boy," she said, her voice cold. "You know I like to have my breakfast before six."
Harry lowered his head, a gesture of submission that came automatically. "I'm sorry, Aunt Bella. I'll be quicker tomorrow."
"You'd better be." She gestured towards the kitchen counter. "Get to work. I want eggs, done the way I like them, and don't burn the toast this time."
Harry moved quickly, his hands working with the practiced efficiency that came with many years of experience.
He cracked the eggs into the pan, the sizzle filling the kitchen. He had been doing this since he was old enough to reach the stove.
He knew exactly how Aunt Bella liked her eggs: firm whites, runny yolks, no browning on the edges.
He moved with precision, but he allowed his mind to wander as he worked.
He thought about the house next door, about the family he couldn't remember. And he couldn't help but have this strange feeling that something was missing.
Was it something important?.
'It's nothing,' he told himself. 'Just tiredness. You've been working hard.'
"I'll be back in ten minutes," Aunt Bella said, pushing herself away from the table. "I expect everything to be ready by then."
"Yes, Aunt Bella."
She left the kitchen, her footsteps fading down the hall. Harry let out a small breath of relief and continued cooking.
Despite everything, he was grateful for this life. It was not perfect, but it was far better than the orphanage.
Those years were a blur of cold beds, harsh voices, and the gnawing ache of hunger, and...the beatings.
And he had been one of the lucky ones...one of the few children who had been adopted, so he could not complain. It would not be fair for the others.
He had been seven years old when Arabella Figg had come to the orphanage. She had looked him over with cold, assessing eyes, and she had chosen him.
He had been terrified at first, but she had never hit him, never starved him, never locked him in the dark.
She was strict and demanding, but she had given him a home. She had even allowed him to keep his parents' name.
'Potter,' he thought. 'I'm a Potter.'
Sometimes, when he had a moment to himself, he wondered about his real parents. He knew they had died when he was small, but he didn't know how or why.
Aunt Bella didn't like him to ask questions about them, and the orphanage had never given him any details.
He had resigned himself to never knowing.
The eggs were done. He slid them onto a plate, adding a single sausage and a piece of toast.
Aunt Bella didn't eat much, and neither did he...though for different reasons. There was never much food in the house, except for cat food.
There was always plenty of that. Aunt Bella loved her cats more than anything, and she made sure they were well fed.
Harry didn't mind. He had grown used to small portions. It was better than starving.
He looked at the clock. Nine minutes had passed...almost ten. 'Right on time,' he thought.
He set the plate on the table just as Aunt Bella returned. She was always punctual. If she said ten minutes...it was ten minutes exactly.
His aunt sat down without a word of thanks and began to eat. Harry turned to the sink and began washing the pans, his hands moving automatically.
"Aunt Bella," he said hesitantly.
"What?" she snapped, her mouth full.
"I saw the sign on the house next door," Harry said carefully. "It says 'For Sale.' Are they moving?"
Aunt Bella paused, her fork hovering mid‑air. "That's what those signs are for, boy. Use your head."
Harry swallowed. "I know, but... what happened to the family? Are they okay?"
He remembered the fire, the smoke, the flames licking at the windows.
He had seen it from his bedroom window, had watched the fire trucks arrive, had heard the crackling of burning wood.
It had been terrifying.
But he didn't remember what had happened to the people who lived there.
Aunt Bella scoffed. "They're fine. The father got a job in a different city, so they're moving out. They probably got a lot of money from the insurance."
Harry nodded slowly, though something about her explanation didn't feel quite right. "Oh. What were their names?" He was almost certain it started with a 'D' or maybe a 'T'? The fog in his head seemed to thicken when he tried to focus on it.
"I don't remember," Aunt Bella said, her voice flat.
Harry was surprised. Aunt Bella had an excellent memory. She could recall the names of every neighbour, every shopkeeper, every stray cat she had ever fed. "You don't?"
"I don't!" she snapped, slamming her fork down on the plate with anger. The clatter echoed in the small kitchen. "And I don't want to hear any more questions about it. Why don't you do something useful and go clean the cupboard under the stairs? It's been a while since it was dusted. And it's not like you have anything better to do."
Harry nodded quickly. "Yes, Aunt Bella."
He hurried to finish the dishes and went onto the hallway, his heart racing slightly.
Aunt Bella could be frightening when she was angry. But he was used to it. He had learned to keep his head down, to avoid drawing attention to himself.
He opened the cupboard door and peered inside. The space was small and dark, filled with old coats, dusty boxes, and the faint smell of mothballs.
He reached for a cloth and began to clean.
As he worked, his mind drifted back to the house next door. Something about it felt important, but he couldn't quite grasp why.
'It's nothing,' he told himself again. 'If it was important...you would know.'
But the fog in his head persisted like a quiet hum of unease that refused to go away.
He decided to think about something else.
About his school. As soon as his school break was over, he would be returning to...
He froze. "Wait..." The name eluded him. "Why can't I..."
Hogwarts.
The name surfaced in his mind like a bubble rising through water. He had frozen for a moment, the cloth in his hand hovering mid‑air.
'Hogwarts, yes!' he thought with relief. 'I go to Hogwarts.'
It was a strange thought, almost foreign, as if it belonged to someone else. But he knew it was true.
He was a wizard.
He had received his letter on his eleventh birthday, and he had spent the last year learning magic at a hidden school in the Scottish Highlands.
He tried to picture it...the castle, the towers, the enchanted ceiling. But the images were fuzzy, like a dream fading upon waking.
'How weird...what's wrong with me today?', he thought. 'I remember magic, but the details are blurry.'
He shrugged and continued cleaning. He would be going back in a few weeks. Maybe then everything would become clearer.
The hours passed in a blur of chores.
By lunchtime, Harry's arms ached, and his stomach growled, but he didn't complain. He had learned long ago that complaining only made things worse.
He was feeding the cats when Aunt Bella called him from the kitchen. "Boy! There's a letter for you."
Harry's heart leaped. "A letter?"
He rarely received letters. He hurried into the kitchen, wiping his hands on his trousers.
Aunt Bella held out a thick envelope, her expression sour. "It's from that school of yours. Hogwarts."
Harry took the envelope, his fingers trembling slightly. It was made of heavy parchment, addressed to him in emerald green ink:
Mr. H. Potter
Arabella Figg's Cottage
Little Whinging number 3
Surrey
He felt a strange thrill run through him.
"Aren't you going to open it?" Aunt Bella asked, her tone sharp.
Harry nodded and broke the wax seal. He unfolded the letter and read:
"Dear Mr. Potter,
Please find enclosed your book list for the upcoming school year. You are reminded that you must bring all required supplies with you on September 1st. Failure to do so may result in disciplinary action.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress."
Harry stared at the letter, a frown creasing his forehead. Disciplinary action? That seemed strange.
'Were the professors this harsh in that school?' He tried hard to recall, but the details about his time at Hogwarts were eluding him.
There was clearly something wrong with him today.
"Is everything alright?" Aunt Bella asked, watching him closely with her sharp eyes.
Harry nodded. "Yes, Aunt Bella. It's just the book list."
"Good." She turned away. "Put it somewhere safe. We can go shopping next week."
"Yes, Aunt Bella."
He folded the letter and tucked it into his pocket. As he walked back to the cupboard, a strange thought surfaced in his mind.
'I should remember this,' he thought. 'I should remember everything.'
But he didn't.
That night, Harry lay in his narrow bed, staring at the cracked ceiling.
The house was quiet, and some of the cats were curled up at the foot of his bed, their soft purring a familiar comfort.
He thought about the house next door, about the family he couldn't remember. He thought about the fog in his head, the strange sense that something was missing.
He thought about Hogwarts, about the magic he had learned, about the friends he should have had.
But when he tried to picture them, their faces were blurry. He could remember their names...Draco, Vincent, Daphne, and...
"Wasn't there someone else?" There was one more name he couldn't recall.
It was so frustrating...the name was at the tip of his tongue but refused to come out.
He shook his head as if trying to push the unpleasant feeling away.
'It's probably nothing serious,' he told himself. 'Just exhaustion. I'll feel better tomorrow.'
He closed his eyes and tried to sleep.
But the unpleasant feeling still lingered, and a quiet voice in the back of his mind whispered that something was very, very wrong.
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