Chapter Text
Harry sat silently underneath the open window, knees tucked tight against his chest. The spot between the rose bush and the house was small, so Harry made himself small. It was that, or stick his legs into the thorny bush. He much preferred the former. He kept his breathing slow and listened attentively to the endless stream of Muggle news, his ears straining for anything that could possibly relate to Voldemort’s return. But so far, he’d heard nothing of the sort. No possible attacks or strange disappearances. The television droned on.
He opened his eyes, which he had shut against the late afternoon sun. After blinking, his green eyes taking a moment to adjust to the light, he spotted Mrs. Figg hobbling down the road. He was suddenly appreciative of the density of the bush in front of him. Thorns or no, it did an excellent job of hiding him from any further invitations to tea. He’d dodged too many of her inquiries about his life at the Dursleys, it was beginning to sound suspicious. And any suspicion around Petunia Dursley’s perfectly crafted image would be unacceptable. Nevertheless, the look in her eyes told him that she knew the nasty bruises that littered his body were not from your everyday schoolyard fights, even for a St. Brutus’ boy.
He waited for her to make her way down the road before any attempt at retreat. Before he could assess the right moment to slip out undetected, an incredibly loud crack sounded through the neighborhood. Alarms went off in Harry’s head and he shot up immediately, hands fumbling to retrieve his wand from the back pocket of his tattered, overly large jeans.
But there was no danger present. At least, not from what Harry could see outside. Inside, however…
Vernon’s abnormally large, purple hands gripped Harry’s unkempt hair, pulling the boy’s upper half into the open window. He let out a hiss of pain as Vernon gripped his throat in fury, demanding to know what the sound had been. Harry tried to answer, but the hands around his neck were too tight to get words out, or air in. His heart raced as he waited for Vernon to loosen his grip. A minute went by, then another, as Vernon seethed and shook the boy.
Was this it? Would he, The Boy Who Lived, perish at the hands of his own uncle? Nevermind the world-threatening Dark Wizard that had come so close the previous years—Vernon would come closer. However, Vernon soon spotted the wand that Harry was grasping, now limply, and in a panic, he threw the boy down into the rose bush.
Harry gasped for air, not minding one bit how the sharp thorns tore right through his thin shirt and worn jeans, piercing his skin all over. At least he could breathe. He clenched his jaw and steeled his eyes in anger as Petunia shrieked from the kitchen for Vernon to stop making a scene. She yelled at Harry to get inside at once, and, not wanting to risk her wrath as well, he scrambled up and hurried inside.
Once Harry was within the seclusion of the entryway, no longer in the neighbor’s view, Vernon grabbed Harry by the shirt collar and lifted him up. Harry could smell the alcohol on his breath and waited for Vernon to question him.
“What was that, freak? That sound of yours?” He said each word with quiet malice, spitting through his teeth. Their faces were so close that it splashed on Harry’s glasses. “Think you can go around this house waving that wand of yours and causing trouble?”
“It wasn’t me, I swear! I only stood up to see what it was,” he explained, though not sounding as ignorant to the situation as he wanted to appear. He knew he had recognized the sound of Apparition, but had no clue as to who it could have been, or why.
Petunia came behind Vernon soon enough. “Vernon, dear. Let him go,” she whispered in his ear, though it was more of a whimper. He noticed her furtive glances out the window. Harry remembered Mrs. Figg and, to his own mortification, realised she probably saw the entire display by the window. Vernon grunted, and released his hold on Harry, who collapsed to the ground. He then wrenched open the door and snapped at Harry to get out while he still could.
Harry needed no further encouragement.
~
Feet dangling slightly from the swing he was seated on, Harry observed the empty park. He had come here immediately after his violent exchange with Vernon. He knew that despite the summer day, the place would be deserted. It was barely a playground, anyway. A couple of rusty swingsets standing atop a pile of dirty wood chips. When he was younger, he would come to this playground and stare at the structures, imagining what it would have been like to be able to play at the park, to get pushed on the swing by his mother.
Fighting nausea, he took some time to relax. His upper body was sore and aching and his breathing wasn’t yet steady. Had he really thought he would die? All the rationality in him must have fled as soon as he’d felt Vernon’s sweaty hands on him. It wouldn’t have been the first time, and probably wouldn’t be the last. Harry kicked the ground and scowled. He’d survived Voldemort 5 times in his lifetime. Why should he be so afraid of his uncle?
But years of experience ensured that Harry knew better. Every summer, there was nothing that could fend off Vernon’s rage or Dudley’s bullying, both of whom had the advantage of attacking him physically. Harry might be a powerful wizard, but he was certainly not a powerful man. This, he knew, was an unavoidable fact. He was 15, both scrawny and weak due to a lifetime of malnourishment, and thus he was incapable of fighting back against any and all abuse inflicted by his uncle. He was defenceless.
He waited there for a few hours, lost in his thoughts, until he spotted Dudley with his gang down the road. Getting up from the swing, he followed quietly. If Harry made it back to Number Four any later than Dudley, he was sure that he’d get locked in the shed again. But if his cousin spotted him, who knew what could happen? Perhaps a game of Harry Hunting, Dudley would no doubt suggest–a favorite pastime of his from the past. Harry was sure his body couldn’t handle another beating that night, magical healing be damned.
As Dudley separated from his group, Harry decided on taking a shortcut through a couple of the neighborhood yards in order to get home before his cousin. Little Whinging was quiet, but not silent. Televisions could be heard faintly from inside the houses, crickets chirped mindlessly, and Dudley’s thick footsteps echoed in Harry’s direction. Determined to not spend another night in the shed, he quickened his pace, vaulting himself over picket fences and dodging automated sprinklers.
Abruptly, as if by magic, the peaceful night withdrew. Harry froze. Dudley, some metres away, let out a gasp. The night instantly became blacker, the air grew colder, and any previous sounds were now mute in the two boys’ ears. The hair on Harry’s arms pricked up, and he slipped his wand out once more. If his fingers were trembling, the comfort of his wand was the perfect remedy. He looked around, scanning for any threats.
Dudley screamed, and Harry reacted immediately, running to where his cousin had fallen in the street. An immense, black figure was floating over him, feeding on him. Dudley was beginning to fade in and out of consciousness. Harry briefly considered running, leaving Dudley to suffer his fate. He deserved it, after all. Feeling disgusted with himself, he shook the thought out of his mind. In a moment of rushed panic and determination, he willed himself to cast his Patronus.
“Expecto Patronum!”
The powerful stag charged at the lone Dementor, and it flew away in defeat.
The night resumed, no longer silent and motionless. Dudley was completely passed out, and there was no way Harry was strong enough to drag, let alone carry, him back to the Dursley’s. After a moment of thought, he decided that he’d already used magic once, what was once more? Ignoring all possible consequences, Harry levitated Dudley’s limp body from the ground, and began his way back home. As sweat beaded on his forehead from the amount of concentration needed to keep his large cousin afloat, dread welled up in his chest. There was no way his aunt and uncle would believe him about the Dementor.
A sound of shuffling behind them caused Harry to twist around, ready and alert. But it was only old Mrs. Figg, who was pattering toward them. What had he gotten himself into? He quickly brought Dudley down and pocketed his wand as she neared closer.
“Oh, don’t put it away, Harry! Who knows if there will be more?” she whispered, warning him.
In confused compliance, he kept his wand in his hand. He stared at her dumbly in the night. “Well, come on then. Back to Number Four you go! Lift him up,” she commanded. He found himself easily obeying.
~
Harry awoke gasping for air. He had dreamt of Dementors and Death Eaters, circling him on Privet Drive, simultaneously cursing and sucking the life out of him, all while Cedric watched, laughing. Sweat had left his sheets a damp mess beneath him. His head pounded from dehydration, and his body throbbed with pain, but it was bearable. Fearing Petunia’s anger at him for running up the electricity bill if he switched on the light, he reached up to draw back his curtains, letting in the moonlight of the nearly full moon. The sight of it reminded him of Remus, and he felt a pang of loneliness and longing.
He got up and padded to the small bucket in the corner. When locked in his room, his aunt would allow him out thrice during the day so he could use the bathroom, but never at night. His nose wrinkled in disgust at the sight of it, but he steeled himself, using the bucket despite his revulsion.
When he was done, he studied himself in the small mirror hanging from his wardrobe. Some of the lesser bruises on his face were starting to fade. Those on his neck, however, were not. They were extremely visible, even in the shadows and dim light. Harry winced as his fingers ran over them, barely touching the skin. Prickly splotches of red littered the front of his neck, while the sides were a deep purple.
He sighed, remembering the previous night. They had walked back to Number 4 together, Dudley in tow. After some guarded questioning, he learned that she was a Squib, a non-magical person born from a magical family. The Dursleys hadn’t taken kindly to that fact at all. In their eyes, she was just as much of a freak as him.
She explained that the crack from earlier had been Mundungus. Not that Harry knew the man from any more than his name. She also notified Dumbledore as soon as she’d spotted the Dementor. Harry wasn’t expelled, so far. He’d received notice from Mr. Weasley that Dumbledore had been negotiating with the Ministry of Magic. Now, Harry only had to wait and see what happened.
Thankfully, Petunia had locked him in his room right away so she could see to Dudley’s unconsciousness. He knew he wouldn’t be coming out any time soon, but anything was better than facing Uncle Vernon’s “discipline,” even if it meant being a starving prisoner in his own home. If he could call it that at all. He crawled back in bed and remained awake until morning.
~
Harry laid atop his bed and twisted his wand reflexively with his fingers. It had been two nights since the incident. He’d gotten no mail other than Mr. Weasley’s letter. He tried not to worry too much. Dumbledore would figure it out, and he would be okay. The lack of mail was a dilemma that had been bothering him all summer. He’d barely heard anything from Ron or Hermione, except for the occasional cautious message which hardly gave Harry any information at all. Nothing from Remus or Sirius as well. It was becoming increasingly difficult to not fault them all for it. He felt more alone this summer than he had been any summer since before Hogwarts.
He drew in a deep breath, curling in on himself as a sharp pain grew in his ribs. His body was in turmoil, and his lack of food or water was taking a toll on the healing process. Harry decided that if it got bad enough, he would have to take the risk and use magic again, some simple healing charms he had jumped at being able to learn when Hermione had offered to teach him in Second Year.
But in a stroke of incredible luck, that morning his pleads were not ignored. Petunia unlocked the door, the row of locks clicking in an all-too familiar pattern, with Vernon and Dudley nowhere to be seen or heard. She announced to him that they would be leaving. She neglected to tell him where they were going, or for how long. Harry would stay at Number Four, and that was that. She shut the door and departed without any further explanation.
As he listened for the familiar sound of the car doors slamming shut, Harry realized he was truly alone. He froze, not eager to be tricked into being punished even more. But the house was silent, and his impatience got the better of him. His fingers wrapped around the handle.
It twisted and clicked open. He was free.
~
Severus stood in the corner of the Headmaster’s Office at Hogwarts, his face soured at the old wizard who was sitting before him. “Why must I be the one to retrieve the boy, Headmaster? Surely either of the mutts would do, or the Weasleys?” he attempted.
“I am sorry, Severus. Sirius and Remus are preparing for the full moon tonight, as you are aware. The Weasleys have enough children to protect, and I wouldn’t risk them for such a task. It must be you, my boy,” Dumbledore replied, popping a sweet into his mouth.
Severus bowed his head, resigned. After a moment, he looked back up, a blank expression on his face. “As you wish, Headmaster. I have some business to attend to before the journey, but I shall be there before midnight.”
The old man smiled. “Perfect, Severus. Thank you.” He then resumed writing whatever letter he was sending in correspondence with the ministry, no doubt in defense of the boy’s arrogance in performing underage magic, in front of a muggle no less.
Severus turned and strolled out of the office at once, robes billowing in a dramatic flair.