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Otherworldly Interference

Alsiel_A
7
chs / week
The average realized release rate over the past 30 days is 7 chs / week.
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Synopsis
What happens if Harry Potter died at the age of 10 and the soul in his body is replaced by someone from Earth?
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Chapter 1 - Unfamiliar familiarity

Arthur groaned, his head pounding like a drum. The bed beneath him was softer than anything he remembered owning, and rather larger than the usual bed he slept in. His headache pulsed in time with his heartbeat, but something else was nagging at him—a strange sense of wrongness. As he opened his eyes, everything in front of him swam into a blurry haze. 

"What in the…" he mumbled. He was quite startled by the unfamiliar pitch of his voice. 

Squinting his eyes to try and make sense of his surroundings, Arthur was able to make out that the room was definitely not his and the color scheme seemed entirely wrong. Also it was too large and there seemed to be bay windows on one side with seemingly dark and heavy curtains. He could make out faint shapes of the furniture which seemed almost ornate and antique, but everything was distorted, as though he were looking through fogged glass.

Arthur rubbed his eyes, only for the same blurry image to remain. A pang of confusion hit him. His vision had always been perfect. 

"I don't think overdrinking makes you lose your vision. At least not after you slept it away." he muttered, wincing at his high pitched voice. 

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he paused. His feet didn't touch the ground as they should have, and his legs—thin and shorter than he remembered—didn't seem to belong to him. His heart raced as he glanced down at his hands. Small. Pale. Fragile.

"No, no, no…" His voice, high-pitched and almost childlike voice, sent a chill down his spine. 

Sliding off the bed, he staggered slightly, his balance thrown off as his body felt smaller, lighter, and entirely unfamiliar. He felt the soft carpet cushion his feet, but the sensation didn't explain much. 

As he tried to walk, he staggered and quickly grabbed on to the bedside table to keep himself from falling over. Arthur steadied himself against the bedside table, his small, pale hands gripping its edge tightly. As he steadied himself, his fingers brushed against something cool and metallic.

Glasses.

He picked them up hesitantly, the thin frames feeling fragile in his grip. His eyes narrowed as he studied them. Why would I need glass? But his vision was so blurry that he decided to try them on. 

Sliding the glasses onto his face, the world snapped into sharp clarity. The room around him came into focus, and what he saw made his breath catch. 

This wasn't just any bedroom. It was a space straight out of a medieval fairy tale. The massive bed he had woken up in had an ornate frame carved with intricate patterns, inlaid with what looked like gemstones. The canopy above was made of rich, velvety fabric, draping down in a regal display of wealth and status. He didn't even use a canopy.

It was unlike anything he'd ever seen, even in the most extravagant estates he'd visited. To his left, stood a massive study table, carved from a dark wood with intricate floral pattern etched along its edges. The surface was littered with parchment, quills and what looked like an inkpot. Beside the table, rows of tall shelves stretched nearly to the ceiling, brimming with books bound in leather and embossed with gold. Some of their spines glimmered faintly, almost as if they were enchanted. 

Across from the bed, near the bay windows, a cozy sitting area was arranged. A set of deep, plush couches and armchairs surrounded a low tea table, which bore an elegant tea set. Steam lazily rose from the teapot, as though the tea had been freshly brewed. 

Around the room, lamps glowed softly. They didn't seem electric but almost magical, their warm light flickering like candle flames within frosted glass globes. The bases of the lamps were ornate, resembling antique candelabras with crystal embellishments. 

Beside the bed was a door framed with an elegant golden trim. Arthur stumbled toward it, his hands brushing over its cool surface. He opened it gingerly to find a walk-in wardrobe that could rival a small boutique. Rows of neatly hung robes, tailored suits, and cloaks lines the walls, all in fine fabrics and deep, rich colors. Polished shelves displayed shoes, accessories, and what looked like a collection of ornate cufflinks and brooches. Wait a second. Robes? Cloaks? These were definitely not something worn in the modern world anymore. 

The other door, larger and more imposing, stood at the far end of the room. It seemed like the entrance door. Arthur's heart raced as he considered what lay beyond it, but for now, he turned his attention back to the bedroom. 

Every detail screamed unmatched luxury. The bed was flanked by matching bedside tables, each bearing a small lamp and stack of books. The air carried a faint smell of lavender, which was quite soothing and definitely helping to subdue his headache. 

But despite its beauty, the room was alien to him. It wasn't his. The bookshelves, the furniture, the lamps—it all belonged to a different era, a different world. 

Arthur ran a hand through his messy black hair, which felt far too unruly compared to his usually well-groomed appearance. His headache flared as he looked around. His legs felt wobbly, and his arms seemed too short. 

Finally, his eyes drifted back to the bay windows. Arthur shakily made his way towards them. Drawing back the heavy purple drapes, which felt like velvet, he opened the window and stepped out onto the balcony. The view outside filled him with dread. 

The view was magnificent, the sea stretching out to meet the horizon. Its waters glittered under the sunlight, and cliffs framed the edges of the estate's sprawling grounds. Gardens and terraces dotted the landscape, their designs intricate and painstakingly maintained. This wasn't the view that he was accustomed to. This was something entirely different, a world far removed from his own. 

Clutching the railing for support, Arthur whispered. "Where am I? What's happened to me?"

Turning away from the window, his eyes darted back to the room. Every detail only deepened his unease. His headache throbbed again. Then he remembered that there was a large mirror in the walk-in wardrobe. Arthur staggered back into the walk-in wardrobe. He needed answers—something, anything—to explain the bizarre reality he'd found himself in. 

The mirror was freestanding, framed in ornate silver with intricate carvings that curled and spiraled like ivy. Arthur hesitated for a moment, gripping the edge of a nearby shelf for balance, before taking a deep breath and stepping in front of it.

What he saw froze him in place. 

Staring back at him wasn't the face he had known for twenty-six years—the sharp jawline, the tired but piercing eyes of a man who'd clawed his way to the top. No. This face was entirely foreign yet hauntingly familiar in a way he couldn't place. 

A boy.

A pale, thin boy with unruly black hair that stuck up in every direction, as though it had never been introduced to a comb. His face was gaunt, his cheekbones too sharp for a child, and his frame almost fragile. His large, green eyes stared back at him, wide with disbelief and edged with fear. 

But it wasn't just the unfamiliar face that unsettled him—it was the unmistakable scar. A jagged, lightning-shaped mark etched across his forehead, faint but undeniable. It stood out against his pale skin like a brand, a symbol he felt like he knew but he couldn't place his finger on it. 

Arthur reached out instinctively, his fingers trembling as they brushed against the mirror. The boy in the reflection did the same, mirroring his movements with unsettling precision. Slowly, Arthur raised his hand to his forehead, his fingertips grazing the scar.

It was real.

"What... what is this?" he whispered, his voice trembling as he took a step back. The boy in the mirror mimicked him, his wide green eyes filled with the same confusion and fear that churned inside Arthur.

He stumbled back further, his breathing quickening as his gaze darted between his small, pale hands and the reflection. "This isn't me," he muttered, shaking his head. "It can't be me. This... this is wrong."

Arthur turned away from the mirror, clutching his chest as his heart pounded like a drum. His surroundings were wrong, his body was wrong, and now his reflection was wrong. Everything was wrong.

The mirror stood silently behind him, offering no answers, only the cold truth of what he had seen. Arthur was no longer the man he remembered—he was a boy. A boy with a scar, a face that didn't belong to him, and a world he didn't recognize.

Sliding down to the floor, he pressed his hands to his head, gripping his messy hair as if trying to wake himself up from this impossible dream. "What the hell is going on?" he whispered.

Arthur's heart nearly stopped at the sound of a knock. The sharp rap against the door echoed in the silence of the room, startling him out of his spiraling thoughts. He froze, every muscle in his unfamiliar body tensing as a voice—a soft, feminine voice—called out. 

"Harry? Are you awake, dear?"

Harry? His mind reeled. Who the hell is Harry? Was she talking about him? Was that supposed to be his name now? He clenched his fists as panic surged through him. He couldn't think straight. 

The voice came again, this time a bit gentler, with an unmistakable note of concern. "Harry, sweetheart, it's nearly time for breakfast. May I come in?"

Arthur scrambled to his feet, glancing wildly around the room, his mind racing for some kind of plan. What was he supposed to do? Whoever this woman was, she seemed to know him—or rather, this Harry person he apparently was. 

The door creaked open slowly, and a woman stepped inside. Arthur stared, his panic momentarily eclipsed by confusion. She was tall and elegant, with auburn hair neatly pulled back into a bun. Her robes flowed around her, the deep green fabric accented with delicate silver embroidery. 

She exuded an air of warmth and grace, her bright hazel eyes filled with maternal affection as they landed on him.

"There you are," she said softly, her lips curving into a warm smile. "Good morning, Harry. Did you sleep well?"

Arthur swallowed hard, his throat dry. His mind screamed at him to say something, but words wouldn't come. He just stared at her, wide-eyed and frozen, his mind a chaotic mess. 

"Harry? Are you feeling all right, dear?" She reached out, her hand brushing against his forehead in a way that felt far too gentle and familiar for his frayed nerves.

Arthur swallowed hard, his mind racing as he stared at the elegant woman before him. She didn't fit the description of anyone he remembered, yet the way she spoke to him carried an undeniable warmth and familiarity. Finally, the question tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

"Who... who are you?"

The woman froze mid-step. "Harry... it's me. Your Aunt Petunia."

Arthur felt as though the ground had been pulled out from under him. Aunt Petunia? That name struck something deep in his memory, a name he hadn't thought about in years. His stomach churned as the realisation hit him like a thunderclap.

"Aunt... Petunia?" he echoed, his voice barely above a whisper. The name rolled awkwardly off his tongue, feeling both foreign and disturbingly familiar.

Her concern deepened as she took a step closer, her hands clasped in front of her. "Yes, darling. Are you sure you're feeling all right? You know me, don't you? Your Aunt Petunia—your mum's sister."

Arthur's breath hitched. Aunt Petunia. That could only mean one thing. He wasn't just in any random boy's body. No, he was in Harry Potter's body.

Memories from his childhood flooded his mind, not memories of Harry's life, but of the books he had read years ago. The Harry Potter books. The boy who lived. The scar. The cupboard under the stairs. Although things were different... He wasn't in the cupboard under the stairs. And this woman standing before him wasn't cold, sharp-tongued aunt described in those pages. She was different—so very different. 

His heart raced as he looked at her, his gaze flickering to her elegant robes and the tenderness in her expression. This didn't align with what he remembered of the Dursleys, the neglectful family who had raised Harry in the books.

Arthur sat frozen, his mind spinning. The books. The name. The scar. It was too much to process. 

The room felt like it was spinning, the edges of his vision darkening as his heart thundered in his chest. "This can't... this isn't..." he muttered, his voice trembling. 

Petunia's warm hand on his shoulder felt distant, like a phantom touch. "Harry? Are you sure you're okay?"

But Arthur couldn't answer. His legs gave out, and the last thing he heard before the world faded to black was Petunia's voice laced with panic. 

"Harry!"

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Arthur drifted into consciousness, his thoughts sluggish as if wading through a marsh. The softness of the bed beneath him and the quiet hum of voices anchored him to the present. His eyelids felt heave, but he managed to crack them open. 

He was still in the same room. Beside him sat Petunia, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder, while a young girl perched on the beside her. 

"Mum, what happened to brother? Why did he faint?" the girl asked, her voice high-pitched with worry. Her auburn curls framed a cherubic face, and her blue eyes gleamed with concern.

Petunia brushed Arthur's hair back gently. "I'm not sure, Abigail," she said, her voice calm but edged with worry. "But we'll find out soon. He just needs to rest."

Arthur blinked at them, his mind a whirl of confusion and disbelief. The events from earlier flashed through his memory in fragments: the mirror, the scar on his forehead, the realisation of where—or who—he was.

"Harry?" Petunia leaned closer, her face soft but searching. "Are you feeling any pain, dear?"

Arthur swallowed hard, his throat dry. "I… fainted?" he rasped, his voice barely above a whisper.

Abigail leaned forward, her small hands gripping the edge of the bed. "You scared us, brother! You don't ever get sick or faint or anything," she said, her tone part-accusing part-concerned.

Arthur opened his mouth to reply but froze, his words catching in his throat as the sound of hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor outside. Moments later, the door of the room swung open, and a tall, well-built man strode in, his presence commanding. 

He was followed closely by another short middle-aged man clad in flowing robes, a black bag clutched in one hand. 

"How is he?" the tall man asked, his deep voice laced with worry. His athletic frame moved with purpose, and though his expression was composed, the tight furrow in his brow betrayed his concern.

Arthur blinked, his disoriented mind scrambling to place the man. The features seemed familiar, but the context was all wrong. Was this supposed to be Vernon Dursley? But Vernon, as he remembered from the books was nothing like this. 

"He's awake," Petunia said. 

Vernon approached the bed, his sharp features softening as he looked at Arthur(their Harry). "You gave us quite the scare, Harry," he said, stepping aside to let the other person through. 

The other man, was middle-aged with streaks of grey in his hair, offered a reassuring smile. "Let's see what's going on, young man." With that he bought out a short stick—a wand and began his examination. The wand emitted soft glows and hums as it hovered over Arthur. 

Arthur flinched, magic was no longer a concept of just books. It was a reality for him. This wasn't a dream. It wasn't a hallucination. This was real.

The man frowned slightly but quickly masked it as he tucked his wand away and jotted something down with a self-writing quill. "his physical health is fine—there's no sign of injury, illness, or curses. However..." He paused, glancing at Petunia and Vernon. 

"What is it?" Vernon asked, his voice low and tense. 

"It appears that Harry has experienced memory loss," the man said carefully. "There's no physical or magical damage that could explain it, apart from his magic being unusually overactive. But that alone shouldn't cause amnesia."

"Memory loss?" Petunia's voice was barely above a whisper, her hand flying to her mouth. "Are you certain?"

Arthur's stomach turned at the healer's words. Memory loss? It was a convenient explanation for his predicament, but it also meant he was stepping into Harry Potter's life with a blank slate—one he couldn't explain.

"Yes," the man confirmed. "It's possible he's experiencing a temporary block. I recommend rest and minimal stress to avoid straining his magic further. If his memories don't return naturally in a week, contact me immediately."

Abigail's face crumpled, and she buried herself in Petunia's side. "Mum, will he forget us forever?"

"No, darling," Petunia said firmly, pulling Abigail into a comforting embrace. "Your brother will be just fine."

Vernon nodded, his expression grim but determined. "Thank you, Healer Crowther. We'll take it from here."

The healer packed his things and gave Arthur a kind smile. "Take it easy, young man and don't hesitate to call if you feel unwell again." With a polite nod, he left the room followed by Vernon.

As the doors closed behind Vernon and the healer, the room grew quiet except for the soft sniffles coming from Abigail. Petunia gently stroked her daughter's hair, murmuring soothing words to calm her down. Arthur, still feeling dazed and out of place, stared at the ceiling, his mind churning.

The healer's words echoed in his head. Memory loss. But that wasn't true, was it? He hadn't lost memories; he'd gained someone else's life. Yet, how could he even begin to explain that without sounding utterly insane?

Petunia's voice pulled him back to the moment. "Harry, dear, do you feel up to talking?" she asked. 

Arthur turned his head towards her. "I... I think so," he said hesitantly. 

Petunia offered him a warm smile, but her eyes carried a weight of worry. "You gave us quite the scare," she said. "Do you remember anything? Anything at all about what happened?"

Arthur hesitated. Should he lie? Admit the truth—that he wasn't the Harry they knew? No, that would only complicate things further. He took a shaky breath. "It's all… blurry. Like I woke up, and everything felt wrong. I don't know how to explain it."

"I don't know anything. I don't even know who I am..." He continued. 

Petunia's smile faltered for a moment, her brow furrowed in concern. She reached out and placed a gentle hand on Arthur's arm, "It's okay, Harry. It will gradually come back to you. We're here for you."

Arthur looked at Petunia, "Maybe... maybe if you tell me everything—about who I was, about my life here—it might jog my memory."

Petunia smiled and leaned in to kiss his forehead. "Don't worry. We will tell you everything."

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Weeks passed in a blur for Arthur as he adjusted to his new life, slowly piecing together everything that Petunia, Abigail and Vernon told him. The Dursleys, it seemed, were far different from the family he remembered from the books. They were pureblood wizards, part of one of the wealthiest and most influential magical families in Britain. Their mansion—no, it was more of a small castle—was located on a cliff overlooking the sea in East Portlemouth, South Devon.

The Dursleys were only using a small part of the left wing, as there were no house-elves to tend to the vast estate. The gardens stretched for miles, filled with vibrant magical plants and flowers, while a large pool shimmered under the sun, untouched but beautiful. The most impressive feature, though, was the full-sized Quidditch pitch at the far edge of the property.

Each day brought a new sense of belonging. Petunia's stories about Lily and James painted vivid pictures of the parents he had never truly known, making them feel like more than just names in a book he had read about. Abigail's boundless energy and adoration reminded him of the joy of sibling bonds, something he had never experienced before. Even Vernon, with his strong and steady presence, made him feel protected in a way he hadn't felt in years. This wasn't just a house—it was a home, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Harry felt truly alive.

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It had already been six months since Harry—Arthur—had crossed into this world, and it already felt like home. The days were filled with laughter, learning and discovery. Diagon Alley, with its bustling streets and wondrous shops, had become a familiar place to him. He loved going there with the Dursleys, particularly when they visited Flourish and Blotts, where Harry would eagerly scan the shelves for books on magical theory and spells. 

Abigail, with her mischievous grin and endless enthusiasm, had become his constant companion. Harry found himself cherishing the bond they shared. For the first time in years, he felt what it was like to have a sibling, someone who looked up to him with pure adoration. They spent hours together—chasing each other in the gardens, racing brooms around the Quidditch pitch (though neither could really fly well yet), and sneaking magical treats Petunia always seemed to have stocked in the kitchen. Abigail was the light of his days, a reminder that this life was real, tangible, and his to live.

But as much as Harry loved his time with Abigail, the quiet hours he spent with books were just as meaningful. Magic wasn't just a fascination for him; it was a passion. He approached it methodically, combining his past-life knowledge with the books he now had access to. Theoretical texts helped him understand the intricacies of magic. 

The process was slow, but Harry thrived on it. First, he learned to feel his magical energy. From there, he began experimenting with controlling it, moving it in precise ways that felt almost like molding clay with his mind. This foundational work was exhausting but exhilarating. Every breakthrough made him feel closer to understanding the nature of magic itself.

July 18th, 1991. It was early morning and Harry was standing in his room as he decides that it is time he actually tried magic. He had made a solid foundation of understanding of his magical energy and could now sense every ounce of magic inside him and control it any way he wanted.

"Alright," he muttered to himself, shaking his hand. "Let's start with a simple fire ball."

He held up his hand, palm open and closed his eyes as he visualised fire—not the image, but the feeling of warmth, light, and intensity. 

"Incendio," he whispered. 

For a moment, he felt it—the magical energy inside him surged, rushing up through his arm. But just as quickly as it rose, it dissipated. His hand was empty. No flame. 

"Okay... not quite what I was going for," he muttered, exhaling sharply. He reached for another book, flipping through its pages in search of answers.

"Alright, what did I miss? Incantation, intent, focus... Maybe the energy needs to be shaped differently? Or am I pushing too much?" he wondered aloud, pulling out a parchment filled with notes.

After a few more minutes of reading and muttering to himself, he stood up straighter, a determined gleam in his eyes. "Alright, second try. Focus on the flow."

Harry held out his hand again, and manipulated his magical energy to flow like a small stream. 

"Incendio," he said again. 

This time, a small flame of blackish fire sprang to life. It hovered in front of him, burning in slow motion.

Harry stared at the flickering blackish flame, his brows furrowing. It didn't look like the orange and red fire he had expected. This was darker, slower, almost deliberate in its movement.

"That's... strange," he muttered, tilting his head.

For a moment, he debated whether it was supposed to look this way. Was he doing something wrong? Or was this what wandless magic naturally looked like? He didn't have a frame of reference.

Carefully, he waved his hand, focusing on dispersing the flame. It vanished immediately, leaving a faint warmth lingering in the air. Harry sat back on his bed, staring at his palm.

"Okay... so that wasn't normal fire," he said to himself. "But it worked."

That very thing filled him with excitement. He did magic. He was an actual wizard. 

"I am a wizard," he shouted as he danced around in his room. His heart raced with exhilaration, and he found himself laughing softly, the sound filled with pure joy.

What Harry didn't know was that wandless magic was so hard that there has only been two people known to have ever been able to do it. Dumbledore and Voldemort, both considered the epitome of magic. And now, he as a ten year old has achieved the same thing without much effort. 

The thrill of his newfound abilities consumed Harry for hours. Once the blackish flame had dissipated, he couldn't resist testing other spells. He skimmed through his books, picking out new spells. With each new spell he tried, the results were immediate and flawless. Objects floated, small lights hovered in the air, and even minor transfigurations seemed to come to him effortlessly—all without a wand. It was exhilarating and almost surreal.

As he was about to continue, his stomach rumbled loudly. Harry clutched his stomach and glanced at the clock on his desk. 

"9 AM already? No wonder I'm starving," he said, realizing he'd been practicing for hours.

He quickly changed into a fresh shirt and headed out of his room. It took him nearly ten minutes to reach the dining hall. As he stepped inside, the sight was warm and familiar. Vernon was sitting at the head of the table, reading the Daily Prophet, while Petunia sat next to him sipping her tea. 

"Morning, Harry," Vernon greeted him with a smile. 

"Good morning," Harry replied, his eyes scanning the room. Not seeing Abigail, he returned to Petunia. "Where's Abigail? She's not here yet?"

Petunia shook her head with a soft smile. "Still sleeping, I suspect. She stayed up late reading again." 

Harry chuckled, imagining his younger sister buried in her books. "I'll go get her," he offered, already turning toward the door.

Petunia nodded appreciatively. "Thank you, dear. Tell her breakfast is ready, and not to take too long." 

Harry made his way to the second floor, where Abigail's room was situated next to his own and the master bedroom. The soft morning light filtered through the windows in the corridor as he approached her door. He knocked lightly, leaning in to call through the door. 

"Abby? Are you awake?" he asked, waiting for a response.

When he heard nothing, he knocked again, louder this time. "Abby, I'm coming in, alright?"

Opening the door, he peeked inside. Abigail was still curled up on her bed, her small figure barely visible under the covers. Harry chuckled softly, stepping into the room. 

"Abby," he said, walking over to her bed. He gently shook her shoulder. "Come on, sleepyhead. Everyone's waiting for you at breakfast."

Abigail groaned and turned her back to him, burying her face into her pillow. She let out a soft whine, her lips forming a pout.

"Not fair," she mumbled. "Too early..."

Harry couldn't help but laugh. "It's not early, Abby. It's past nine. If you don't wake up, I'll eat all the good stuff first."

Still, she refused to move, groaning again. Amused, Harry pinched her cheeks gently. "Come on, lazybones," he teased. "I'm waiting for you too, you know."

 At that, Abigail finally peeked one eye open, her face scrunching in protest. "Fine," she muttered dramatically, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. Then, as if deciding it was still too much effort to walk, she threw herself onto Harry's back with a playful grin.

"Carry me," she demanded, her voice laced with mischief.

Harry laughed, standing up with her clinging to him like a koala. "You're getting spoiled, Abby," he teased, ruffling her already messy hair.

As they walked in, Petunia looked up, her smile lighting the room. She gently nudged Vernon, who put down the Daily Prophet and glanced over.

Both of them smiled at the sight of Harry carrying Abigail on his back, her laughter filling the space.

"Well, don't they look like the perfect siblings," Petunia said warmly, her eyes soft with affection.

"Quite the sight," Vernon added, chuckling as he watched Harry carefully lower Abigail onto her chair at the table.

Abigail grinned cheekily. "See, I made it! And I didn't even have to walk."

Harry rolled his eyes but smiled fondly as he sat down. "You're lucky you're cute, Abby."

As he sat down, he turned his attention to the table, his fingers fiddling with the hem of his shirt. A thoughtful look crossed his face, and he glanced at Petunia. 

"Aunt Petunia," He began. 

She looked up from her tea, setting the cup down as he noticed the shift in his tone. "Yes, dear? What is it?"

"I…" Harry hesitated. Finally, he gathered his courage and straightened. "I had something I wanted to ask you." 

Petunia tilted her head slightly, her expression warm. "Of course, Harry. Go ahead."

Taking a deep breath, Harry looked directly at her, his voice steady but laced with emotion. 

"Can I call you Mum, from now on?"