Rescued by Lamia: Chapter 1

Vernon Dursley, who lived on Number Four Privet Drive in the pleasant little suburb called Little Whinging in Surrey, was not a happy man. He prided himself on being utterly normal—an upstanding citizen who disliked anything remotely strange, new, or beyond his narrow understanding of the world. That’s why, on a mild afternoon in mid-October of 1988, he found himself grumbling over his newspaper, his thick mustache bristling in distaste as he reread the headline:

“Monsters Integrate into Society under the Cultural Exchange between Species Act!”

He slammed the paper onto the table, causing the plates and silverware to rattle. His wife, Petunia, who had just placed a modest lunch on the table, flinched. His son, Dudley, scowled at the mention of these newcomers—winged harpies, centaurs, lamias, and who-knew-what-else.

Vernon Dursley hated them all.

To his mind, those creatures were unpredictable menaces who should never be allowed the same rights as “normal people.” Worse still, this program, championed by some annoying new government division, gave these monsters equal footing in polite society. He took special offense at the idea that they were to be treated kindly—as if they were human—and that the hosts would face steep fines, possibly even jail time, for abuse.

Yet while Vernon openly expressed his disgust, he did have an unspoken reason for feigning interest in taking in one of these “freaky monsters.” If he volunteered—he and his family, that is—and if they played their cards right, they could end up with a second servant. After all, Vernon already had one utterly worthless boy under his roof, the child he insisted on calling simply “Boy” or “Freak”: Harry Potter.

Vernon glanced at the door leading into the backyard, where Harry was finishing some yard work. He was a frail child—unhealthily small for his age, so tiny that one might have guessed he was four rather than eight. His hair was long, matted, and greasy, his eyes often downcast; he barely spoke above a squeak. In the back of Vernon’s mind, however, the scheme was blossoming: If the Dursleys invited an extraspecies being to live with them, they’d be assigned official oversight, meaning Vernon had to put on a show of polite hospitality. But the real goal was to exploit this new creature’s labor just like they did with Harry—only more efficiently, given the new laws. He wouldn’t be allowed to strike them. But with enough false smiles, enough pretense, and enough manipulative sweetness, he could wring them dry of whatever use they might have. And if that creature disliked Harry, well, that might make it even easier to keep the boy in line.

The door from the backyard opened, and Harry trudged in. He wore baggy, tattered clothes—Dudley’s old hand-me-downs. His face, which had a delicate, almost feminine cast to it, remained hidden beneath a curtain of unkempt black hair. Petunia watched him shuffle toward the table.

“It’s about time,” Vernon said gruffly. “Finished the weeding?”

Harry nodded. “Y-Yes, Uncle Vernon.”

“Then get back out there and do the hedge trimming. Don’t keep us waiting, boy.”

Harry bowed his head wordlessly and hurried out the back door, as if he could sense Vernon’s rising impatience. Petunia sat with a prim sniff, and Dudley shoveled some more mashed potatoes into his mouth. Vernon cleared his throat, eyeing them both.

“Dudders. Petunia, dear. I have a wonderful idea.”

Petunia looked up from her plate. “Yes, dear?” she asked, forcing her voice to sound pleasant.

“I think,” Vernon began, pushing aside his now-rumpled newspaper, “that we should take in an extraspecies through that new program.”

Petunia’s lips twisted in a grimace. “An…extraspecies?” She practically spat the word as though tasting something sour. Even Dudley paused mid-bite, jaw slack with a mixture of shock and disgust.

Vernon raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Look, I know it’s not what we’d prefer. But think about it. They do chores. They help around the house. It’s all part of the so-called ‘cultural exchange.’ They want to teach these monsters how to live among humans, right? We’ll pretend to treat them decently—just enough to keep the law off our backs—and in return we get an extra hand. Or extra tail, wings, whatever it is.”

Petunia exchanged a conspiratorial look with her husband. A slow, unsettling grin spread across her face. “I suppose an extra pair of hands would lighten the load. And there’s no rule against them working around the house, is there?”

Vernon smirked. “Of course not. So long as we don’t physically harm them, we’re perfectly within our rights to ask them to do chores. We just have to…pretend to be nice.”

Dudley, who was not nearly as sharp as either parent, nodded after a moment of thought. “That means more time for telly, yeah?” he asked hopefully.

“Precisely, son.” Vernon folded the paper. “Petunia, why don’t you ring them up? Let’s see how quickly we can get ourselves a monster who will help out…properly.”

Petunia grinned, daintily wiped her mouth with a napkin, and rose from her seat. “I’ll do just that.”

Meanwhile, outside in the sun, Harry was hunched over a pair of hedge clippers, sweat dripping down his face. He’d been fighting off dizzy spells all morning. The Dursleys never gave him proper meals—only scraps and crusts that didn’t fill his belly. His slender frame trembled under the weight of the sweltering midday heat.

At one point, unable to bear the dizziness, Harry set the clippers down and stumbled to the back porch. There, a grimy tray of leftover scraps awaited him—two or three cold peas, a half-burnt piece of toast, some congealed bits of egg. Nonetheless, he wolfed it down. Starved as he was, he was grateful for even this. Then, hoping to cool off, he turned on the garden hose and let a trickle of water run across his arms. The relief was immediate.

“BOOOOOOY!”

Harry jumped, fear flashing in his eyes. He nearly dropped the hose. Vernon’s roar made him feel small and trapped.

“I—I’m sorry, Uncle,” Harry said timidly as he rushed back inside. Vernon slammed the door behind him, glaring with such intensity that Harry shrank back against the wall.

“You dare waste our precious water?!”

Harry’s lips parted, but he couldn’t form a coherent response. Every ounce of him quaked. He wanted to say it was so hot, that he only needed a bit of relief, but he knew better than to argue. Instead, he simply looked down, heartbreak evident on his pale face.

Vernon jabbed a finger into his chest. “Don’t ever pull another stunt like that. If you faint, you faint. It’s not our concern if you can’t manage a little yard work. Do I make myself clear, boy?”

Harry nodded. “Y-Yes, Uncle Vernon.”

He was promptly shoved back outside, but not without one last growl of disapproval from Vernon. Harry blinked away tears, his heart aching with each thud of the door behind him. Why can’t I have a family that cares about me? he wondered. Why can’t anyone help me?

Little did Harry know, things were soon about to change more drastically than he could ever imagine.

That very morning, hundreds of miles away, a young lamia named Miia was peering out the window of a transport truck, tail coiled nervously around her large suitcase. She was part snake from the waist down, her long red hair flowing over her shoulders. A bright lamia who wore her heart on her sleeve, Miia was excited and terrified at once. She had been accepted into a host family under the Cultural Exchange between Species Act, and she had no clue what to expect.

She was quite sure that she wanted to please her new hosts—maybe they’d be nice, maybe they’d be curious to learn about her snake half, or maybe they’d be disgusted. She twirled a lock of her hair around her fingertip anxiously, imagining both best-case and worst-case scenarios in rapid succession.

“All right, Miia. We’re here,” came a lazy voice. The transport truck’s back door opened, revealing Ms. Smith, the special coordinator in charge of extraspecies placements. She was a government agent with perpetually tired eyes and a distinctive sense of cynical humor.

Miia offered a shy smile, carefully hauling herself out of the truck. Her scarlet tail glinted in the light of the mild English sun. She piled her suitcases precariously atop one another—bags brimming with everything from clothes to various lamia-friendly accessories—and slithered after Ms. Smith, who marched up a small walkway toward a neat little house marked by a sign reading Number Four.

The neighborhood looked ordinary enough: identical houses, clipped lawns, pristine hedges. The only difference Miia could see was that the neighbors seemed to eye her from behind curtains with wide, uncertain eyes.

Ms. Smith marched up the steps and knocked sharply on the front door. Miia tried to swallow her anxiety—her heart hammered in her chest. At last, the door swung open, revealing a thin-faced woman with a very long neck and horselike features. Ms. Smith blinked, nearly dropping her suitcase.

“Oh,” Ms. Smith said drolly. “A centaur, I see. You’ll fit right in!”

“I BEG YOUR PARDON?!” Petunia Dursley shrieked, face turning a splotchy red.

Realizing her mistake immediately, Ms. Smith bowed a little too theatrically. “My apologies, Mrs. Dursley. You’re a, er…a lovely woman,” she added, pressing her lips thin in an attempt not to grimace.

Petunia let out an offended snort but then plastered on an obviously forced smile. “Yes, well. Welcome to our home. Do come in.”

Miia followed Ms. Smith inside, noticing at once how cramped everything felt. She tried coiling her tail more tightly around her to keep from knocking anything over, but the place was clearly not built to accommodate her serpentine lower body. She was forced to bunch up in the kitchen, which was perhaps the tidiest kitchen she had ever seen. Everything was polished and clean to an almost excessive degree.

“So, as you know,” Ms. Smith said, rubbing her temple as though staving off a headache, “the renovation team will come by in a few days to modify the house for Miia’s comfort and accessibility—”

“A few days?!” Petunia demanded, color draining from her face. “They’ll tear this place apart!”

“It’s all covered by the government,” Ms. Smith assured, crossing her arms. “You only have to sign a few forms indicating your agreement to comply with the Cultural Exchange laws. Then you’ll continue to receive monthly stipends.”

Petunia bristled at the mention of more paperwork, her expression caught between greed and resentment. She wanted that stipend, but she loathed the idea of letting strangers into her precious, squeaky-clean home. Still, she knew how to keep a façade: she forced another smile and nodded stiffly.

“All right,” Petunia said in a simper. “I suppose we can manage some minor changes.”

Miia tried to hide her relief. If the house were left as-is, she’d never fit properly. Plus, she dreaded accidentally breaking a lamp or scratching the walls with her scales. She offered a polite wave, her bright amber eyes scanning the house with curiosity. She noticed photos on a side table: mostly featuring a portly blond boy she assumed was Dudley. She saw no pictures of any other child, though, which struck her as odd, as Ms. Smith had mentioned earlier that this family might have “more than one child.”

Petunia fetched a pen, and Ms. Smith spread out a daunting stack of documents on the kitchen table. Miia tried to read over her shoulder, but Ms. Smith quickly turned a page, only giving her glimpses of official seals and legal disclaimers.

Just as Petunia scribbled her signature onto the final page, the front door swung open so violently that it nearly dented the wall. The man who entered was enormous in girth, with a face so red from exertion that Miia briefly worried he might topple over. Vernon Dursley glared around the kitchen, taking in the sight of a lamia coiled among the chair legs. He flinched, obviously put off by her presence, but after Ms. Smith cleared her throat pointedly, he forced a grotesque grin.

“Ah,” Vernon said, voice booming with fake cheer. “You must be Miia.” He extended a meaty hand. Miia accepted it gingerly, swallowing her unease. There was something in the man’s eyes that made her scales prickle—an anger, a revulsion, poorly masked by his tight-lipped smile.

“H-Hello, Mr. Dursley,” Miia murmured. She nearly jumped when Vernon patted her upper arm with a heavy hand.

“Welcome to our home,” Vernon boomed. He glanced at Ms. Smith, then in the direction of Petunia. With forced politeness, he said, “Why don’t you two get some coffee before you leave, Ms. Smith? Then, my dear wife and I can, er, finish up any outstanding documents.”

Ms. Smith drained the last of her cup. “Thanks, but I’ll be on my way as soon as you sign the liability forms, Mr. Dursley. Lots of other placements scheduled today.”

Vernon’s temple twitched. Petunia hurried to push the papers at him with an exaggerated smile. “Sign, dear,” she said stiffly.

For the next hour, as Vernon perused and scribbled on stack after stack of official forms, Miia settled in a corner of the living room to wait, trying not to coil her tail around the furniture. She watched Petunia’s sour expression shift from guarded to calculating, especially whenever Ms. Smith’s gaze wandered. Eventually, Ms. Smith clapped the briefcase shut.

“All right,” Ms. Smith announced. “That’s everything. Miia, you’re now officially housed with the Dursleys. We’ll have the crew come in a few days to get started on renovations. In the meantime, do abide by the guidelines, you two.” Her eyes narrowed at Vernon. “Kindness, tolerance, and no threats or harm. You break the law, you’ll be facing severe consequences. Is that clear?”

Petunia and Vernon both gave strained nods. Ms. Smith stepped out the front door, stifling a yawn. “Well, I’ll see myself out. Gotta handle a check-in with another family soon.”

And with that, she was gone.

The moment the door clicked shut, the atmosphere turned frigid. Petunia let out a derisive sniff. “Well. Miia, come along. I’ll show you to your…room.”

Miia tried to mask her apprehension. “Thank you,” she said softly, coiling behind Petunia up the stairs—or, at least, partway up. There, Petunia opened a small door leading into a cluttered second bedroom that seemed to be an extension of Dudley’s domain. Unused toys, old board games, junk piled on every available surface. There was a bed, but it looked like it’d been shoved in as an afterthought.

“You can make yourself comfortable.” Petunia’s eyes flicked over Miia’s long coils with barely disguised distaste. “We’ll have to see about, er, clearing out some floor space for your…tail.”

Miia forced a smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Dursley.”

Petunia gave a curt nod. “You’ll find towels in the hallway cupboard. You’re to keep everything neat. Is that understood?”

Miia nodded quickly, uncertain how else to respond. Petunia disappeared. Miia exhaled shakily. She uncoiled and began tidying the bedroom, pushing old toy trucks into piles and stacking them in a corner so she had enough room to settle on the floor. She tried the bed, but it was far too short for her tail—her coils spilled onto the floor in an awkward heap.

Not long after, Vernon’s loud footfalls pounded up the stairs. When he opened the door, his jowls were rippling with an uneasy attempt at friendliness.

“Miia,” he said, clearing his throat. “I realize you’ve only just arrived, but our family is, well, quite busy, and my wife is in delicate health…my son, while an active boy, doesn’t do chores…”

His insinuations made her frown a little. The house was immaculate—hardly in need of such fuss. Still, wanting to be gracious, Miia nodded. “I can help if you’d like. I’m more than capable of vacuuming, dusting, laundry…just point me to what needs to be done.”

Vernon’s lips curled into an unsettling smile. “Wonderful. I’ll have Petunia draw up a list for you. Splendid that you’re so cooperative. Ha—this might work out well for all of us.”

Despite herself, Miia felt a shiver slither down her spine. She forced a polite reply, and Vernon lumbered back downstairs. Left alone, she coiled more comfortably on the floor and let out a weary breath. Is this normal? Are all families like this? she wondered. She reasoned that they had probably never met a lamia before and so were anxious or uncertain. Maybe, if she did her chores happily and proved herself helpful, she could win them over.

A short while later, she saw a flicker of movement outside her open door: a small shadow bobbing by. She turned her head, but whoever it was had hurried along. Perhaps it was Dudley. Curiosity piqued, Miia decided she should at least greet the boy of the house at some point. But just then, Petunia’s shrill voice called her downstairs.

“Miia! We’ve got a list!”

Miia sighed, uncoiled, and slithered down, nearly bumping into a boy who was scurrying across the hall. He was so small and thin that Miia almost didn’t notice him until she nearly slid over his foot. He caught her eye for the briefest moment, then darted away, his face pale and fearful.

“W-Wait—” Miia started, but Vernon’s sharp tone cut through the air.

“That’s enough gawking!” he barked at the boy. “Go on, do your chores!”

The child hurried off without a word. Miia’s brow furrowed. She had a gut feeling that boy wasn’t Dudley—he was far too skinny, with large green eyes that looked haunted. But she had no time to dwell on it before she was handed a daunting to-do list. Laundry, dusting, dishes, wiping down windows, vacuuming the stairs, weeding the garden, preparing dinner if time allowed…

Her eyes widened. “This is…quite extensive,” she murmured.

Petunia’s smile was razor-thin. “We’re so sorry,” she said, not sounding sorry in the least. “We simply have so many tasks, and as you can see, I’m busy with…my fragile constitution, so you’ll be helping out.”

What could Miia do but nod and start work?

In truth, Harry Potter had never imagined he would see anything stranger than the day he made a glass pane vanish at the zoo—an incident from a few months ago that he still didn’t quite understand. Yet now, there was a woman with a snake tail in the house. She was bright and friendly in a way that felt completely alien to him. And she didn’t look at him with disgust, or call him freak. Instead, she just…well, she hadn’t actually spoken to him yet, but the one time their eyes met, he saw only curiosity there, not hatred.

He tried not to dwell on it. The Dursleys had always told him not to ask questions. If he spoke out of turn, he’d pay for it. So he returned to his chores, swallowing the swirling confusion in his mind.

The day passed slowly. Harry managed to mow the lawn and weed the flower beds. Eventually, he found a few moments of respite near the back porch. He was so exhausted that his legs threatened to give out, but he knew better than to rest if he still had a job to do.

Suddenly, that lamia slid out into the yard, carrying a pile of laundry to hang. Harry tried to back away, but he wasn’t quick enough. They bumped into each other gently. Fear shot through him, and he let out a tiny yelp, stumbling back until he fell into the dirt.

“Oh! Sorry!” the lamia exclaimed. “Are you okay?” She coiled downward, pressing her palms out in a gesture of peace. “I’m Miia. You must be…Dudley?”

Harry’s lips parted in confusion. “N-No. I’m…Harry…” he managed, swallowing hard. She was even taller up close, with a very long, scaly tail in shades of red that gleamed in the sun.

Miia’s face flickered with surprise. “Harry, huh? They…didn’t mention you to me.” Then, remembering her training, she softened her tone. “Well, it’s lovely to meet you, Harry. I’m sorry for running into you.” She reached out a hand.

Harry noticed that her hands were smooth and warm. He blinked at them, uncertain. The Dursleys almost never offered a helping hand. Hesitantly, he placed his small, bony fingers into hers. She gently helped him to his feet.

“Are you okay?” she asked again, concern evident. Her gaze swept over him, taking in his skeletal form and bruises. She saw how his clothes hung like a tent on him, how his black hair was so long and ragged it nearly covered his eyes. Something twisted in her heart. He was so fragile-looking.

“I-I’m fine,” Harry said, voice almost a whisper.

Miia studied him in silence for a moment. She’d never seen a child in such a state. He reminded her of pictures she’d seen of lamia hatchlings who’d been rescued from harsh desert conditions—starving, half-feral, with eyes that radiated fear and yearning. Instinctively, she smiled warmly.

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Harry,” she said, reaching out and gently ruffling his hair. “I’m living here now. I hope we can be friends.”

Friends. Harry couldn’t remember the last time anyone had used that word in his presence. He stood there, uncertain. Then, with tremulous relief, he nodded. A small, shy smile tugged at his lips.

Seeing that, Miia’s heart practically melted. “So, what are you doing out here? More chores?”

He nodded again. “I…have to finish them, or…”

Miia remembered the mention of how the Dursleys would ‘punish’ him or threaten him. A cold knot formed in her stomach. She forced a cheerful tone. “Why don’t I help you?”

Harry’s eyes widened. “Y-You would do that…? But you have your own chores to do.”

Miia shrugged her slender shoulders. “I can do both. I’m really strong, you know!” She flexed her arms, and though she wasn’t particularly muscular, lamias were known for their physical power. Harry blinked, his cautious smile widening just a fraction.

They spent the next hour or so quietly working side by side. Harry showed her which plants needed watering, which hedges needed trimming. Miia asked him softly about his day-to-day life, but his answers were mumbled and vague—he seemed too frightened of being overheard to divulge much. Still, she noticed how he clung near her, as though her presence was a shield from something lurking in the house.

Eventually, Miia glanced at the angle of the sun and realized it was nearing dinnertime. She hesitated, recalling the fiasco earlier when Petunia had asked her to cook, which ended with the Dursleys complaining it was tasteless or overcooked. Miia had rarely cooked human meals before. She felt guilty for messing it up—though she’d also gotten the sense that no matter what she made, the Dursleys would have found fault.

Harry saw her expression and spoke up timidly. “I…usually fix dinner.” He paused, then shrank into himself. “I…can help…if you want. Th-That is…if you want me to.”

Miia blinked. “They make you cook, too? You’re so small—your head hardly reaches the stove.”

Harry shrugged. “I stand on a stool. It’s okay.”

She frowned. None of this felt okay. Yet, determined to keep an eye on him, she said, “Let’s do it together, then. That might make it easier on both of us.”

So they returned inside. Vernon was in the living room reading the newspaper, sneering at more news about the extraspecies integration. Dudley was off in another room playing some loud video game. Petunia hovered in the kitchen just long enough to say, “Don’t mess it up this time,” before storming out.

Miia and Harry worked in concert—Harry quietly instructing her on how to measure ingredients and which spices to add, while she lifted the heavier pots and stirred them on the stove. She found that with Harry’s guidance, her cooking turned out far better. The smell of something edible and even somewhat tasty filled the kitchen.

When they finally served it, Petunia barely acknowledged them. Vernon grumbled about the seasoning, and Dudley picked at the food. But all three ate enough to leave the plates only half-full, a stark improvement from the previous day’s fiasco. Miia counted this as a small victory.

In the hush after dinner, Harry began to collect the plates. But Miia intervened, taking them from his shaking hands. “Let me do it,” she insisted gently.

Harry, unsure, stepped back. This small kindness caused his chest to tighten with unfamiliar emotion. He bit his lower lip, tears threatening to well. He refused to cry in front of them. He might be a freak in their eyes, but he’d die before letting them see him weep.

Seeing Harry’s face crumple for a second, Miia shot him a concerned look. “It’s okay,” she mouthed silently. He nodded, scurrying out of the room.

It was only after she’d loaded the sink with dishes that Miia realized Harry had vanished. Petunia was sweeping the hall, and Miia quietly asked, “Where did Harry go?”

Petunia’s lips tightened. “He’s…gone to his room,” she answered sharply, turning away.

Miia was about to ask which room that was, but Petunia pretended not to hear her. Giving an internal sigh, Miia finished the dishes, dried them, and retreated upstairs. Maybe Harry was in one of the bedrooms? She had checked the guest room earlier and hadn’t seen any sign of a child living there, so maybe he had some corner or smaller space…

She found an open door that led to a massive bedroom littered with broken toys, presumably Dudley’s. Another door was Petunia and Vernon’s—she could hear the low hum of the television behind it. But the third door was locked. Then she noticed something odd: a small cupboard door under the stairs on the ground floor. She recalled seeing something that looked more like a storage closet than a proper room. She decided to investigate.

She slithered back down, thinking she might hear Harry’s voice or see a light. Before she could approach, Vernon stepped out of the living room, glaring. “Upstairs, Miia. Nothing else to see here,” he said with a forced grin. “We wouldn’t want you snooping, would we?”

Miia’s tail curled anxiously. “N-No, I was just—”

Vernon’s eyes narrowed. “Upstairs.” His voice had a threatening undercurrent, though the corners of his mouth twitched in a parody of politeness.

Swallowing her misgivings, Miia nodded and went back to the second bedroom. She coiled onto the bed, taking up more space than she wanted, and exhaled. Something was very wrong in this house. She just couldn’t pinpoint it exactly. She grabbed her phone—a cheap one provided by Ms. Smith’s department—and typed out a quick message to Ms. Smith, describing how the Dursleys were acting. She was about to hit send when she realized she had no signal; the phone’s display read “NO SERVICE.” She sighed. Maybe it was the thick walls.

Sometime after midnight, Harry awoke in his cramped cupboard under the stairs, wincing as a fresh bruise on his ribs throbbed. Vernon had vented his anger after dinner when Harry had made eye contact for too long, or so he’d claimed. It was the same old routine—pushing, kicking, a short, brutal reminder of Harry’s place in the house.

He heard the floorboards overhead squeaking as someone passed by. For a moment, he half-hoped it was Miia. The soft sound of her voice from earlier lingered in his mind. She had been so gentle. But no one came to open the cupboard door. Eventually, he drifted back into a restless sleep, his breath hitching with every movement.

Early the next morning—October 15th, 1988—Vernon and Petunia were up before dawn, bustling about the kitchen. They wanted breakfast ready before Vernon left for work, and they insisted Miia do it. What they hadn’t counted on was Miia being a deep sleeper, at least when coiled comfortably. Fuming, Petunia rattled some pots and pans, muttering about how lazy the lamia was. Harry, of course, was roused from his cupboard to cook.

Harry whisked eggs, fried bacon, and prepared a towering stack of toast. As he set the table, his knees threatened to buckle from fatigue. He nearly jumped out of his skin when a pair of hands clapped over his eyes in a playful gesture.

“Guess who?” came a lilting voice.

He let out a small squeak. The hands pulled away, revealing Miia’s bright smile. Despite his fear of being scolded, Harry grinned timidly in return. “M-Miss Miia…”

“Correct!” she said, beaming. She then leaned down, her eyes going wide as she saw the ugly bruise around his left eye—a spot of purple and green swelling. “Oh my goodness, Harry…what happened?!”

Harry froze. The mere mention of it could get him in trouble again. He remembered what Vernon had told him, how it was “his fault for being so clumsy.” Shame and terror knotted in his chest. “I…f-fell down the stairs,” he finally mumbled, dropping his gaze.

Miia’s brow furrowed. She forced herself to keep calm. “Well…please be more careful,” she said gently. Then, with motherly concern, she smoothed his unruly hair aside. “This looks painful. Does it hurt?”

He shrugged—his usual gesture, as if he wasn’t sure how to answer. “A…a little,” he admitted.

A heavy silence passed. Miia wanted to press the matter, but footsteps echoed in the hallway. She gave Harry’s shoulder a comforting squeeze and let him continue with breakfast. The Dursleys came stomping in: Vernon took the biggest plate, Petunia daintily sipped her tea, and Dudley gobbled up everything within reach.

Miia made her own breakfast from the leftovers, then asked if Harry wanted to share. But Petunia answered for him with a cold sneer. “He’ll eat later,” she said. “We have a fresh set of chores for him this morning.”

Harry bowed his head and slipped outside before Miia could argue. She scowled at Petunia’s retreating back, positive that the woman was hiding something awful.

By mid-morning, Harry was in the backyard again, dutifully hauling bags of fertilizer across the grass. His scrawny limbs trembled under the weight. Miia, having vacuumed the living room and done the laundry, slipped outside to check on him. She found him straining to carry the heavy bag, sweat dotting his brow.

“Harry, that’s too heavy,” she whispered, quickly taking the load from him. “You’ll hurt yourself. Let me do it.” She hoisted it with surprising ease, her tail providing better balance than human legs ever could.

Harry gave her a relieved, grateful smile. She noticed how it brightened his entire countenance. It occurred to her that no child should look so astonished to receive help. Something warm and protective flared in her chest.

“Thank you, Miss Miia,” Harry said softly. “You’re…really nice.”

She felt her cheeks warm. “I just don’t want you to get hurt,” she replied, setting the bag aside. “Hey, maybe after we finish, we can just…sit and talk? It’s such a nice day.”

Harry hesitated, as though uncertain he was allowed to enjoy anything resembling leisure. But the look of quiet hope in his eyes answered her. They worked together for another hour, finishing the tasks surprisingly quickly. Finally, they both collapsed onto the grass. Harry breathed in the fresh air, nearly giddy with the momentary peace. Miia coiled beside him, glancing now and then at his slight frame.

She decided to broach the topic gently. “Harry…um…do you mind if I ask about your parents?”

He turned his head away. “They died,” he said in a trembling whisper. “In a car crash. A long time ago.”

Miia’s heart clenched with empathy. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly, placing a hand on his back. “That…that must be so hard.”

He closed his eyes, tears stinging. “I don’t really…remember them,” he confessed. “But sometimes I—I think about them. I wonder if they would have liked me.” He swallowed, then pressed his lips together, as though afraid he’d said too much.

Miia’s chest felt tight. The sadness in his voice was sharper than any sorrow she’d encountered among her lamia sisters back home. She curled the tip of her tail around his ankles in a gentle, almost protective gesture. “Of course they would have,” she said softly. “You’re so sweet…they’d be proud of you.”

Harry sniffled. He’d never heard anyone talk like that before. Not that he remembered, anyway. He quickly brushed a tiny hand across his eyes and sat up, uncertain how to handle the wave of gratitude that threatened to crush him.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

She gave him a smile, though it was tinged with sadness. She wanted to ask how he’d gotten the bruises, why he was so underfed, why his clothes were more rags than proper garments, why they had him sleeping in a cupboard. But she knew that if she pressed too hard, it could put him at risk. So she kept quiet, vowing to find a way to help. Maybe Ms. Smith can do something she thought. Surely the program has guidelines about child welfare.

Just then, they heard a shrill voice from inside: Petunia calling for Harry, no doubt noticing their break. Miia frowned. “Let’s go,” she murmured. “We don’t want to get you in trouble.”

Harry nodded, clinging briefly to Miia’s arm as they stood. She gave his hand a gentle squeeze before leading the way inside. The moment they entered the house, Petunia glowered at them both, brandishing a tiny pile of broken porcelain from the orchard pot Harry had accidentally knocked over earlier.

“You clumsy whelp,” she hissed at Harry under her breath. “Just wait until Vernon hears about this.” Then, with a venomous look at Miia, she snapped, “I’ll handle it. Miia, if you’re done lazing about, see to the living room windows. They’re filthy.”

Miia’s fists tightened at her sides. Harry, eyes down, went stock-still. They parted ways—Harry to bury himself in more chores or face his uncle’s wrath, Miia to wash windows while her mind churned with worry.

That afternoon, Miia’s concerns reached a boiling point. While Petunia was out running errands and Vernon was still at work, Miia managed to find an out-of-the-way corner of the house with a phone signal. She called Ms. Smith, voice low.

“Smith, you have to help,” she whispered. “I think something’s really wrong here. They treat the boy—Harry—like a slave. He’s so thin, and he’s covered in bruises. I’m worried—”

Ms. Smith sounded bored. “Well, that’s not good. But child welfare is not exactly my department, Miia—”

“It’s your job to protect me, right?” Miia pressed. “If they’re hurting him, who’s to say they won’t hurt me eventually?” It was a gamble, but Miia hoped it would force Ms. Smith’s hand.

On the other end, Ms. Smith sighed. “Point taken. Look, I’ll swing by tomorrow to check on your situation. Just stay out of trouble until then, okay?”

Miia exhaled in relief. “Thank you,” she said.

Before Ms. Smith could respond, the front door slammed. Vernon’s angry voice thundered through the hallway. Miia hung up quickly and slithered into the living room, forcing a calm expression. She pretended to be fussing with the couch cushions.

Vernon marched in, face blotchy with rage. “Where is that worthless boy?!” he snapped. “Let me guess—he’s off lazing around again instead of finishing the yard work!”

Miia tried to step forward, but Vernon’s glare pinned her to the spot. “I—I’ll find him,” she offered quickly, not wanting Harry to face Vernon’s full wrath unprepared. Vernon grunted in vague approval, and Miia hastened out the back door.

She found Harry cowering near the hedges, picking up stray leaves. His eyes darted to her, wide with terror. “He’s…angry again,” Harry breathed, voice shaking.

Miia swallowed. She gently took him by the shoulders. “Stay close to me,” she murmured. “I’ll try to keep him calm. Ms. Smith is coming soon—she’ll fix this.”

Harry’s relief was overshadowed by confusion. “She will?”

Miia nodded. “Yes. But we have to be careful until she gets here.” She glanced toward the back door. “Now, come on.”

Inside, Vernon stood with his arms folded, face twitching. The moment he saw Harry, he let out a bark of derisive laughter. “Get in here!” he demanded, gesturing for Harry to come close. Miia nearly coiled around Harry in protective instinct, but she remembered the law: physically defending the boy might trigger some twisted reaction from Vernon. She had to be subtle.

Harry stepped forward. Vernon grabbed him by the arm, knuckles white. “Did you break your aunt’s flower pot?”

Harry swallowed. “I—I’m sorry, Uncle Vernon.”

Vernon’s face reddened further. For a moment, it looked as if he might forget the presence of Miia. Then, catching her watchful eye, he let out a deep breath, releasing Harry’s arm abruptly. “We’ll discuss this,” he growled, “tonight.”

Miia felt a wave of relief, though the ominous promise in Vernon’s voice made her tail bristle. Harry’s lips trembled, but he said nothing. Instead, he stared at the floor, shoulders trembling almost imperceptibly.

“We need dinner,” Vernon snapped. “Make it edible this time. Both of you.”

Miia and Harry hurried to the kitchen. She scowled as soon as they were alone. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered to Harry, her voice thick with genuine pity. “We’ll figure something out.”

He mustered a nod, though his eyes glistened with tears he struggled not to show. Together, they prepared a quick meal of pasta and a light sauce. The tension in the house was suffocating. Even Dudley seemed unusually silent, though mostly he was irritated that Miia’s presence cut into the dynamic of picking on Harry.

After dinner, Miia tried to keep an eye on Harry, but Petunia whisked her off to clean the upstairs shower. By the time she was done, she realized Harry was nowhere in sight. She listened closely, but heard nothing beyond the tinny noise from Dudley’s television and the soft hum of the dryer. Then she heard a muffled whimper from the living room. Carefully, she made her way there, only for Vernon to step out, shutting the door behind him.

Miia’s heart hammered. “Where…where’s Harry?”

Vernon adjusted his tie, forced a sickly smile. “Harry’s in his room.” He stared her down. “And you should be in yours.”

A chill went down Miia’s spine, but she nodded stiffly, swallowing the anger that threatened to lash out. The moment Vernon trudged upstairs, she snuck to the living room door. It was locked. She bent lower, looking for any sign that Harry might still be inside. A faint scuffing noise came from behind the door, then silence.

Miia waited, heart pounding. Eventually, Vernon came back down, stared at her with barely contained rage, and barked, “Go to bed!”

She had no choice but to retreat to the second bedroom, lying awake for hours, stomach tight with dread.

Harry drifted into a painful daze in the cupboard. The “daily reminder of his place” had indeed come. It lasted less time than usual—Vernon seemed concerned about Miia noticing the commotion—but even a short beating took a toll on Harry’s battered body. He coughed, hugging his ribs, praying that Ms. Smith would come soon. Maybe she’ll help me he thought in a haze. Maybe Miss Miia really cares…

For the first time in his memory, he felt a glimmer of hope.

He eventually dozed off, dreaming of a warm coil that hugged him close and protected him from the cold darkness.

True to her word, Ms. Smith arrived the next day, wearing a crisp business suit and sporting a slight scowl. She barely knocked—pushed the door open with a breezy, “Hello, Dursleys! Just a routine check-in.”

Petunia gaped, mouth opening and closing like a fish. Vernon hurried to greet her, ignoring the fact that she hadn’t truly been invited in. “Ms. Smith,” he said, plastering on that revoltingly false grin. “You should let us know next time. We’d have tidied up!”

Ms. Smith flicked her gaze around the spotless house, unimpressed. “Right. Is Miia here?”

Miia slithered in from the kitchen, relief evident on her face. “Yes, Ms. Smith. Thank you for coming.”

Vernon started to speak, but Ms. Smith held up a hand, snapping, “I’d like to see the boy you have living here, too. The one named Harry.”

Instantly, Vernon’s neck reddened. “Harry is…out running errands. He’s not here,” he said quickly.

Miia’s eyes widened in alarm. “But I just saw him a minute ago—”

“He left. Went to the store,” Vernon growled pointedly, shooting Miia a glare. “He’ll be back later.”

Smith, unimpressed, crossed her arms. “Well, we’ll wait, then.”

They stared at each other in an awkward standoff. Petunia, nerves shot, offered to make tea. Ms. Smith politely declined, setting her briefcase on the coffee table. “Let’s cut to the chase,” she said. “Miia called me, concerned about living conditions. She said the boy might be overworked and underfed, and that you might be pushing him to do…well, everything. We wouldn’t want to breach the act’s requirement that host families maintain a lawful, humane household, would we?”

Vernon’s eyes bulged. He huffed, cheeks inflating like a bullfrog. “We treat him quite fairly!” he barked. “But that boy’s trouble—always causing accidents.”

“Is that so?” Ms. Smith said, arching a brow. “I’d like to see for myself.”

Vernon fumbled. “He’s not here at the moment. Like I said, he went to the store.” He flashed Petunia a look.

Ms. Smith glanced at Miia, who looked on the verge of tears. The lamia parted her lips, but before she could speak, the sound of a closet door slamming open echoed from the hall. A small, thin figure darted out.

“Harry!” Miia exclaimed, heart leaping.

Harry had managed to push his cupboard door open from the inside—apparently the lock hadn’t been latched properly. He stumbled into the living room, cheeks wet, bruises plainly visible. “M-Miss Miia?” His gaze fixed on her, his voice thick with desperation.

Ms. Smith’s eyes narrowed, taking in the sight: the battered child, fresh bruises under his oversized shirt, the obvious fear etched across his face. “Alright,” she said softly, turning back to Vernon. “Care to explain?”

Vernon’s face darkened. For a moment, he looked ready to unleash his wrath. But Smith whipped out a small taser from her belt, her posture cool. “Don’t even try it,” she warned, voice ice-cold.

Everything exploded into chaos. Vernon lunged, but Ms. Smith sidestepped him and jammed the taser into his side. He crashed to the floor, twitching in pain. Petunia let out a banshee scream and rushed forward, only to be met with another quick zap. She too collapsed, moaning softly.

Miia stared, heart pounding. “Th-Thank you,” she breathed to Ms. Smith, who merely rolled her eyes, yanked out her phone, and made a quick call to the local police.

Harry, trembling, rushed toward Miia, tears streaming down his face. She wrapped her arms around him protectively, coiling her tail around them both.

Ms. Smith ended the call and spoke briskly, “The cops will handle them. Obviously, your placement here is terminated, Miia. We’ll get you a new host family. As for the child…” She hesitated, gaze lingering on the boy’s skeletal form. “He’s not part of my usual jurisdiction, but…we can’t leave him here, obviously.”

Miia clutched Harry tighter. “Then take him with us,” she pleaded. “I’ll watch over him until…until we figure something out.”

Harry sobbed into Miia’s shoulder. Ms. Smith frowned, adjusting her glasses. “Technically, a foreign national extraspecies adopting a British citizen is unprecedented. But…given the extenuating circumstances…” She nodded. “We’ll figure something out. In the meantime, you’ll both come with me. We’ll place you in a safe location while we sort out the legal details.”

Miia’s eyes brimmed with relief. She pressed a kiss to Harry’s dirty temple. “It’s going to be okay,” she murmured.

Harry hiccupped, hugging her with all the strength he had. Never in his life had he felt such warmth and security. For a moment, he felt dizzy with the wonder of it. Could it be true? Could he really leave Privet Drive with Miss Miia?

Police sirens sounded outside, and Ms. Smith put a hand on Miia’s shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get you two out of here.”

Miia shifted, carefully lifting Harry into her arms. She slithered out the door. Dudley, who’d been cowering behind the sofa, made no move to stop them. Everything had changed in an instant. Harry stared at the quiet suburban houses, tears drying on his cheeks, his heart pounding with hope and terror all at once.

Within the hour, two police cars and Ms. Smith’s battered sedan were parked outside Number Four Privet Drive. The neighbors peeked from curtains, scandalized to see Vernon and Petunia Dursley led away in handcuffs, ranting about the injustices befalling “perfectly normal folk.” Dudley wailed, demanding his parents be returned at once, though an officer tried to calm him.

Ms. Smith had Harry and Miia wait in the backseat of her car. Miia coiled there, letting Harry sit across her lap. She gently stroked his hair, trying to soothe him. He was so light, like a half-grown hatchling.

“It’s going to be alright,” she repeated, as if reassuring herself as well. “We’re leaving them behind. You’ll never have to go back.”

Harry, still trembling, held tight to the stuffed plushie Miia had pulled from her suitcase. It was shaped like a cartoonish snake. “T-Thank you,” he whispered over and over, as though the words were too small to carry the weight of his gratitude.

Ms. Smith eventually climbed behind the wheel, weaving between the cluster of official vehicles. “First, we’ll take you to the extraspecies support center,” she explained. “We have dorm rooms for emergencies, and we can keep an eye on you. Then we’ll see about permanent placements. There’s a Japanese program volunteer named Kurusu Kimihito who’s a possible candidate for Miia’s re-homing. He’s quite famous for hosting multiple extraspecies at once, very tolerant.” She paused, tapping her nails on the steering wheel. “But that means traveling to Japan. Possibly living there.”

Miia’s eyes shone. “Harry can come?”

Harry clutched the plush snake with more force. He stared at Ms. Smith with anxious hope, lips trembling. “I—I can stay with Miss Miia?”

Ms. Smith sighed. “We’ll do our best to keep you together. The law is murky on cross-national adoptions, but…worst case, we’ll put you in a safe foster environment here in Britain, and Miia can visit you.” She watched them both in the rearview mirror. A pang of sympathy softened her usually stern face. “But if there’s a way to keep you two together, we’ll find it.”

Harry nodded, biting his lip to stop it from quivering. Miia coiled her tail around him protectively, exhaling shakily. “I won’t leave him,” she whispered, eyes blazing with determination. “I promise.”

Harry could only nod again, too overwhelmed to speak. Part of him still thought maybe he was dreaming. But Miia’s arms were solid and real, and the gentle swirl of her tail around his back felt safer than anything he’d ever known. For the first time, he allowed himself to imagine a future free from the Dursleys’ cupboard. A future that might hold real food, real affection, and maybe even a chance to learn about those weird occurrences he sometimes caused—like that vanishing glass at the zoo…

He curled against Miia, letting her scaly warmth lull him into an exhausted sleep. Ms. Smith guided the car onto the motorway, heading for the government facility that would serve as a temporary haven. In the distance, the sky was a vivid blue, dotted with white clouds that seemed to drift with an air of promise.

Meanwhile, far away in Japan, half a dozen other extraspecies girls went about their daily lives, some under the Exchange Act, others hiding from it. A certain harpy flitted from rooftop to rooftop, giggling as agents tried to track her. A centaur named Centorea trotted through the busy city streets, searching for a bond of fate. A mermaid named Mero sighed dreamily in a grand bathtub, longing for a tragic love story. A slime named Suu peeked into windows, learning how to solidify her body so she might not absorb everything she touched. A lonely arachne named Rachnera toiled under an exploitative black-market host, spinning silk with despair in her heart. And a quiet dullahan called Lala wandered aimlessly, pondering the meaning of her existence, scythe in hand.

None of them knew that in just a few short weeks, a young lamia and a rescued British boy would arrive in Japan, and that their fates would become entwined in ways none of them could foresee. A boy who had endured a life of abuse and neglect might finally discover not only a new family of loving monster-girls, but also the truth of his own hidden gifts. Though the road would be long and complicated, though the laws had never accounted for a wizard child or the unusual developments that would unfold, something bigger than all of them was gently nudging their destinies together.

At the center of it all was Harry Potter, trembling in Miia’s arms, fast asleep with a bruise on his cheek and hope stirring in his heart. And for that single moment, as Ms. Smith’s car sped down the highway, everything felt as though it was going to be okay.

End of Chapter 1.