Chapter Text
Harry stares down at the book. The book stares back. Waterlogged black text is slightly smeared, childish drawings of dragons and wizards blending into one another. It’s not a very pretty book, and the cover is peeling off, and the paper is chafing, but Harry fished it out of the puddle that Dudley had thrown it in, so it was as good as his now. Harry never had things that were his-- his clothing was all hand-me-downs, run-ragged by Dudley. His blanket and pillow were old sheets of Petunia’s that she stuffed into the cupboard before looking the other way and not giving them another thought. Even his glasses weren’t his-- they were his father’s, apparently. How they survived a car accident, Harry didn’t know, but he did know for a fact that they weren’t his because of how they slipped down his nose every time he turned his head. So while the book may not be pretty, or nice, or even that legible, just having it in his hands- something solid, that he could read and re-read again and again because no one else was expecting it- made something warm and fluttery bubble up in Harry’s stomach. He didn’t feel that very often.
The story was an intricate, if not dumb-down, tale of two teenagers finding a dragon and keeping it in their backyard. It was utter bollocks if you asked Harry, but it still managed to entrance the 5 year old’s childlike wonder. It almost made him forget the rumbling in his stomach, a deep-rooted gurgle which bubbled up due to a lack of food, and the blossoming headache- stabbing his head with every line. Eventually, Harry’s eyes tired out, and in the darkness of the cupboard he couldn’t continue to read the book. So, he slid it down, under his pillow (just in case Vernon or Petunia opened the cupboard and saw it), and shrugged himself under the thin sheets. Curled up in a ball, hair tousled and body overheating due to the summer air, Harry counted the cracks in wood until his eyes grew heavy and he fell asleep.
Petunia Dursley had a very strict schedule for her nephew, not-nephew. Harry was to wake up at 5:30, cook breakfast by 6, and be clean by 6:10. He thought that timing was a little ridiculous, so Harry often got breakfast done by 5:50, and started cleaning so he’d be done by 6:10. Then, after breakfast, he’d have to clean the table, wipe the countertops, and wash the sink. When the kitchen was all good and neat, Harry was sent outside. He had to weed the garden, water the flower beds, and trim any unruly plants. Afterwards, he was to come inside and clean himself off before starting lunch at 12. Lunch was to be completely over and cleaned up by 1, and at that point Harry had to vacuum the downstairs. Not the upstairs though, because he wasn’t allowed up there. Harry had downtime then, in which he’d either spend it in his cupboard, reading whatever he could get his hands on, or be forced outside to be target-practice for Dudley. Occasionally some tasks would be switched out with one another; for instance, on Sunday’s Harry had to go to church at 7, so there was no weeding, and occasionally Petunia would make him clean the bathrooms or dust the furniture or mop the kitchen instead of vacuum after lunch.
During the summer though, the hours of 6:30-12 were by far his favorite. Outside in the yard, with the sun on his back and dirt on his knees, Harry couldn’t be happier. The methodic rhythm of trim, pull, pull, entranced him, and often it was easy to lose himself in the motions. Sometimes, Harry would secretly think about working with plants when he got older. Every time he worked out with the flowers, Harry paid special attention to make sure each had their needs met. July in Surrey was by far the driest month, so with an old watering pail, Harry made sure to lug the appropriate amount for each plant. He liked seeing the blooming flowers, and sometimes, Harry told himself, he could feel the plants reaching out to him-- vines and leaves wrapping around his arm, calling out to him and telling him what they needed. And maybe it was a little sad, but when he was out in the garden, even when he was on his hands and scuffed knees, a pair of creaky weeders grasped tightly in his hands, Harry felt like he finally had someone he could just coexist with. There was no bullying, no taunts or demands or angry shouts of “boy!” that left flinches and tremors racking up Harry’s body. With the plants he could just be, and that was nice, and Harry didn’t want to change it at all.
When July came to an end, and August started up, Petunia started fretting more. She hadn’t sent Harry to school last year. Most first year’s start pre-preparatory school when they’re 5. Instead she resisted, with complaints that ‘he isn’t ready enough,’ and that ‘Harry’s such a shy child-- he still needs to adjust and just putting him in a classroom really wouldn’t be the best.’ It was all lies of course, but still the fact remained that Harry would get his first year of schooling while his classmates started their second. And maybe he did harvest a bit of anger over that, but being raised by the Dursleys made that easy to conceal. So, Harry weeded the garden and watered the plants and took care of the house and didn’t say a peep when he overheard Petunia’s conversations with the school attendance office over the phone.
Another solace the constant, deliberating, annoying chores Petunia forced Harry to do, was that they often got him away from Dudley. Dudley tended to go out earlier, rather than later, and he never liked to be held up. The list of to-do’s therefore stopped Harry from getting dragged out for all of Dudley’s and his friends' gathering. It didn’t spare him from all of them, mind you, he still got plenty of bruises and cuts and scrapes on his knee that stung when he feverishly touched them in the middle of the night in his cupboard, but the list seemed to give him enough of an out. Harry supposes then, that the really only bad thing about going to school would be having to see and interact with Dudley so much. He just hopes the boy’s smart enough to not cause a large enough problem that it’ll be visible, but, knowing Dudley, Harry finds that unlikely.
The weeks in August tick by, and soon it’s halfway over. Petunia already took Dudley back-to-school shopping. She dropped some things outside Harry’s cupboard afterwards, a run-down notebook, 3 pens, and what Harry assumes is the assigned reading, but it was all without a second glance his way. Harry shrugs though, and brings the supplies into his meager little room.
It seems the Dursleys and Harry have an agreement of sorts. Harry does his chores, and the housework, and cooks the meals. He stays quiet and contained, and doesn’t bother Petunia or try to get things. In exchange, Petunia mainly leaves him alone, and he isn’t proxy to Vernon’s fits physically, only verbally. The unfortunate Dudley situation is a downer, though, but Harry supposes the Dursleys would never do anything against their dear sweet Dudley, so Harry learns to live with it. He supposes that, when he’s older, he’ll move out and never talk nor see the Dursley's again. It’s an odd hope for a 6 year-old, but it’s the only really tangible thing Harry knows he wants in the future, so he looks forward and works towards that goal with all his might. If being complacent will keep him from angering the Dursleys, and therefore make the miserable 10 more years until he’s 16 and can move out bearable, then he will be just that.
Of course though, there’s always a wrench in a 6 year-olds plan.
School starts up and it’s really lovely at first. His teacher’s named Ms. Davies, and she has these brown curls that bounced delicately off her shoulders. Her skin is peach cream, eyes a chocolate glaze, and she’s always smiling in the morning. When Harry walks into the classroom, Ms. Davies always leans down, dimples peeking out through rose-tinted cheeks, and says “Good Morning Harry,” with a twinkling light in her eye. Harry ducks his head and continues to his seat.
The classroom itself isn’t fantastic, but it’s quaint and there and that’s all that Harry really needs. The desk’s are wobbly, and the wood’s scratched with initials and symbols, pencil marks signifying just how long they’ve been there, but Harry wasn’t expecting new-desks anyways. The chairs are a mix between wooden seats and gleaming metal, the latter of which are more comfortable. Some kids take the metal chairs for themselves-- it’s a powerplay of sorts, Harry figures out-- but Harry’s not really looking for any enemies so he keeps his wooden chair. His feet don’t even touch the floor.
The tile is scuffed, and so are the walls. In the corner, farthest away from Ms. Davies, there are pencil and pen scribbles. The lighting’s harsh too, and it hurts Harry’s eyes sometimes, but- luckily- it’s still early in the year and so the classroom gets enough light from the three big windows to the left of the classroom. Ms. Davies desk is in the center, and she always has a mirror on it which reflects the sun-light right back up to the ceiling where, sometimes, you can see a rainbow.
The morning’s start off with Ms. Davies giving a little run-down of what they’re doing today. It’s a cute note, and it leaves Harry smiling because he’s finally learning. Sometimes though, kids that are friends with Dudley see his smile and sneer at him, and Harry’s own grin drops down into something subdued. It makes his eyes narrow in frustration and teeth grate together, but the promise of getting out at 16- if he can just last that long- keeps Harry from doing anything rash which is, really, the last thing he wants to do.
So, yes. School starts up and it’s lovely at first. Harry learns maths, english, and history. He gets to color in sheets with crayons that Petunia only ever buys Dudley, and he learns how to spell his own name. He even learns his last name! Harry knew it wasn’t Dursley, knew that- although he was related to Petunia and Vernon- they weren’t his parents, but he never knew who they were, and he never knew their name. Learning that he’s not just ‘Harry,’ but rather: ‘Harry Potter,’ sits snug in a hole that he didn’t know existed before.
Another wonderful thing about school is it’s library. Harry can sit there for hours, reading books just like the water-logged one hidden under his pillow. He can’t check them out, not because he doesn’t want to, but rather because he’s afraid what might happen to the books if Petunia or god-forbid Vernon find them. Still though, just sitting in there and reading for an hour or two lights that warm fire in Harry’s chest that he’s begun to associate with good things. The school librarian seems to take a liking to him too-- he’s an old man by the last name Smith, something rather common and yet it fits the gray-haired yet young looking face. He points Harry towards other fiction books he thinks the younger boy might like, and adds fuel to the fire that is the beginning of Harry’s burning passion for literature.
September goes by quickly, and life is good with it, and so, of course, it has to come to an end.
Harry has his first assessment. It was easy, a basic check on their reading skills in English. Harry had to memorize a few words, and the specific spelling of them, and then he had to read a passage and answer a couple short questions. His handwriting wasn’t the best, but when he went up and gave it to Ms. Davies, he saw that everyone had a similar form of chicken-scrawl, so Harry doesn’t think it’s a problem.
When he finished, he took out the math homework they got earlier in the morning and began to work on it. Equations were difficult, though he was slowly starting to get the hang out it, and every time Harry was able to recall the answer to something quickly it made him feel successful and victorious. He continued on, in his own little self-contained world of learning, until he recognized the tell-tale sign of someone looking at him and an adult looming over him.
Peering his head up cautiously, Harry’s eyes grew wide as a dinner platter when he saw Ms. Davies standing over him. Only, she wasn’t wearing her usual dimple-smile. Instead it was all taught and stretched, fine in places it should’ve been full, and forced when it should’ve looked natural.
“Harry,” Ms. Davies said gently, “Can you come with me for a moment, dear?”
Harry slowly turned his head around the classroom. Everyone was looking at him, even the kids still on the assessment. Gradually, Harry’s gaze was pulled back to Ms. Davies and he nodded hesitantly. His hair swung down in his eyes with the movement, but Ms. Davies didn’t seem to notice because she was already turned around and walking for the end of the door of the classroom. Harry scrambled after her, pushing his math homework to the side of his desk as he hopped down off his chair. He managed to end his brisk pace and catch up with the teacher, despite her being an adult with longer legs, and when she held the door open for Harry, he walked through it.
The classroom door shut with a resounding thud and click, and then Ms. Davies was looking down at him, not a trace of her kind smile anyway.
“Harry,” she said.
“Ms. Davies,” Harry said in return, ducking his head.
“I… Harry you must understand this is hard for me to do. See, you’ve been such a kind student in my class… but you’re…guardians warned me about your background and…disposition towards these sorts of things.” Harry’s forehead creased and ticked with irritation. “I really want you to succeed Harry, I do. But, see, well, I can’t have you lying on assessments. Just tell me who you cheated off of, okay?” At that Ms. Davies went down, squatting in an indignant way so she was eye-level with Harry.
“I-what?” Harry questioned, confusion flooding his senses. Surely not… he-- well… The Dursleys were cruel, but they weren’t that messed up, were they? To lie to his teacher and say that he had a… what, ‘disposition for lying?’ And because of his background! If that wasn’t an unsubtle jab towards his still mysterious, dead parents, then Harry didn’t know what was.
“Harry dear, please don’t make this harder than it has to be. Just tell me who you cheated off of, okay?”
Harry pursed his lips together, his opinion of Ms. Davies rapidly declining. Still, trying to prove his innocence wouldn’t seem to work here, so harnessing all of the emotions he’s felt, Harry bit his lip and watered his eyes and-- “Dudley, my cousin, Ms. Davies. I just… he’s so smart and I just wanted to do well too.” Harry kicked his shoe against the linoleum floor. It squeaked.
Well, perhaps it was a bit overplayed, but Ms. Davies seemed to buy it. She stood up, brushing off her skirt, and nodded. “Good, right then. If you go, Potter.” And ushered him back into the classroom. When one of the other students- a boy of the name Noah Williams, and a friend of Dudley- noticed he came in, a wide, victorious grin spread on his face. “Ooooh Potter,” he jeered, “look who’s in trouble!”
The fiery warm feeling that school had settled into his stomach before was rock-hard now; a cold, crystal echo of what it used to be. Harry kept his head down and scowled hard, cursing his flushing cheeks and the jeering boys and girls, taunting him every turn. He went to sit at his desk-- at least so he could take his anger out on his homework- and a kid reached out with their leg and tripped him. Harry fell, palms scuffing against the floor and hot tears welling up, into his eyes. The students continue to laugh and laugh, fingers pointing at him as Harry wrangled his body up, moving uncooperating limbs out of a messy pile and into his seat. He kept his head firmly down, his fist clenched underneath his desk. Harry peered in the space between his chest and desk, eyes narrowing as he glared at his clenched fist and the rubbed-red marks beginning to spread. His eyes narrowed further, his cold fury building within himself even though he knew he couldn’t let it out-- Vernon and Petunia were already going to have a field day over him supposedly cheating even if they set it up, he couldn’t give them anymore ammunition. Still, that didn’t quell the rising anger or intense loathing forming in Harry’s throat, and chest, and head; and, as his glare intensified, his hate building and building, a flame flickered in his hand, crawled up his fingers, before disappearing without so much as a thing of smoke.
Blinking in shock, Harry’s head jolted back. He focused back in on his fist, now forgetting the chorus of laughs mocking him, and stared intently at his fingers, and where they met, and fire. And, with enough thoughts, and enough concentration, Harry managed to make a meager flame that danced back and forth in the center of his fist.
Huh.
Useful.
October continued on. The weather in Sulley began to get colder, and the days were more rainy than not. Bundled up in as many layers of Dudley’s old clothes, Harry held his arms against his chest and tried to feel any warmth.
His excitement and enjoyment of school lessened, though it didn’t dim completely. True, he had to purposefully bomb tests- otherwise Vernon would beat him, and Petunia would make him clean all day- but, to himself, Harry was still able to learn. His fear of checking out books from the library lessoned as the month waned on too. Petunia seemed fit to not pay attention to him at all now, barely just checking that he continued his menial tasks when he got home, and Vernon was only a problem when he was angry. Which was, granted, often. However, during his fits Harry found that if he stayed in his cupboard Vernon was less-inclined to find him.
So, without the fear of the loaned books being ripped, and destroyed, Harry went to the library during his lunch period to finally check out a few books.
With school being horrible, and the library now reachable to him at home, Harry’s favorite time of the day moved to night. Specifically, when he was in his cupboard without any expectations. Sure, the draft of October was cold, and it made his bumps rush over his skin, but it was his private time. Harry read books then, but- more importantly- he practiced.
The rush of fire he felt in the beginning of October, he tried to hone in on it. Finally, after 3 weeks of practicing he was able to get a steady flame to flicker up and down his arm. With the chill setting in and the upcoming winter months in Sulley, Harry tried to take the flame and apply it a little bit… differently.
Wishing warmth into his blankets, and his clothes, and his shoes, small six-year-old fingers laid splayed, gripping the fabric lightly. Harry’s forehead crinkled together, his eyes snapping shut. His teeth grated against each other, and sweat began to cling to his brow. Harry concentrated, and wished, and when that didn’t work he thought. Thought about the blankets being warm, thought about heat seeping into them, thought about Harry feeling comfortable, and warm, and safe, in the cool winter months. The change from wanting to envisioning seemed important, as it made dull pulses of heat rush into his blanket. Harry grinned sleepily at it and went to bed. The effort had made his chest tighten, a soreness not unlike how his legs felt after running away from Dudley for hours, setting in. But, at least Harry knew now what he can do.
That was the first winter he was warm.
October passed, and along with it November, and then it was Christmas coming up again. Christmas was the worst time, because Petunia made him clean the house from top to bottom (it was the only time he was allowed upstairs) and he had to cook elaborate meals which took all day to simmer, and broil, and prepare. Worst of all though, was on Christmas morning when Dudley was surrounded by his piles and piles of colorful gifts, and Harry merely got a couple clothes that Dudley didn’t want. It made his fist tighten and his mouth screw together, unkind words floating through his head, but when Petunia and Vernon turned to him-- their cherry grins dropping- Harry mustard up his sweetest, most innocent: “Thank you Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon,” even though it made his mouth sour and stomach twist. Honey-coated gratitude's were just what the Dursleys wanted, though, and so it was what the Dursleys got. Sucking up was one of Harry’s least favorite things, but, at least, he could recognize it’s benefits.
The meager gift was put in his cupboard, and then Harry had to get to work on food. Christmas breakfast was to be cleaned up, appetizers were to be prepared, and Dinner was set to simmer. Marge was arriving at 1:00, so Harry had about 5 hours to get everything ready and make it all presentable. His only solace was thinking over the various… things… he could try during the winter break. Petunia wouldn’t let him leave the house unless it was with Dudley, so he couldn’t very well go to the library, but in his cupboard he could practice all the weird things he was able to do. Maybe he could even try some new ones.
Marge arrived with her yapping dog and Harry set the plates out obediently. Then, he stood off to the side as she greeted Dudley, and Vernon, and Petunia, with kisses and gifts and hugs, before sneering at him and turning away. Harry’s fist hid behind his back, fingers digging red crescents into his skin, but when greeted he put on that sappy honey-do smile and gave a ‘Merry Christmas Aunt Marge,’ that made his cheeks flush and chest tighten. Marge scowled at him, a hiss of: “Come here boy,” between her lips and Harry obliged. The wood creaked under each step, and he was sure to keep his head high but eyes ducked down. When he was within Marge’s reach, thick calloused hands grabbed at his ear and pulled. Harry hid a wince, though his mouth did press together uncomfortably, and let Marge lead his head. This close up, she smelled like fake flowers— no doubt doused in some cheap perfume.
“This holiday,” she said, voice echoing throughout the room. Across from them, Dudley looked thoroughly pleased by the event. “This holiday I will not have your wickedness affecting this family.” Harry didn’t know why he had wickedness , or why it would affect the family, but he didn’t dare voice his complaints. “Here me boy?” Marge roared.
Harry gulped, a sourness seeping down his throat. “Yes Aunt Marge.”
The broad lady made a ‘hmph’ sort of sound. Her eyes raked over Harry’s rags and unruly hair. “You should be very grateful, boy, that Vernon took you in instead of letting you rot.” Her thick grip eased off of his ear. She wiped her hands together, as if getting the feeling of Harry off of her. “Letting you rot,” she eyed Harry, distaste curling her tongue. “What a good thing that would've been.”
Then she stepped forward, a dewy smile overtaking her face once more as she shepherded Dudley and Petunia and Vernon to the sitting room. Harry remained in the doorway, though. He stared down at the creaking wood floor, hand clenched tighter than it has ever been before.
Let him rot…
Wickedness…
Affect the family..
Rot… Rot… Rot….
The wood browned, then curled, and then turned an ashy gray and fell in on itself. The pressure released from Harry’s chest. An ant-sized hole laid in the hard-wood, the edges eaten away.
Harry’s knees bent, and he gently lowered himself into a graceful squat. His hand unraveled, red crescents beginning to fade. Slowly, a finger stretched out and wiped at the ash around the hole. It collected on Harry’s callous, ashy dust piling together.
Harry’s eyes narrowed, subtle green turning acid. He rubbed his index and thumb together, watching as the gathered dust flaked down.
Decay.
Harry stood up, eyes fixated on the hole in the wood. Maybe he was wicked, and maybe he would rot this family from the inside out.
It was a pleasing thought, and left an unsettling grin on his face before he retired back to the kitchen. Yes, decay. That fits.
After that, there wasn’t anything important. Harry ate dinner at the table, pushing around a couple mash potatoes and a meager slice of turkey. His ribs poked out uncomfortably under his shirt, but taking more than that would result in…displeasure.
Marge yapped and yapped (almost as much as her dog), with a few pointed insults towards Harry and his parents, but once the 6 year old was done with his plate he was able to leave and clean up.
At night Petunia put him in the cupboard— but she didn’t bother locking it, Harry didn’t require a locked cupboard yet, he wasn’t that much trouble- and Harry spent all night focusing on scraps of paper and making them decay.
When morning arrived it was boxing day, AKA the one day Petunia doesn’t make Harry cook and clean or be entertainment for Dudley. So, he stayed in his cupboard, content with being under the thin blankets and reading until his eyes were sore, or practicing his oddness until his chest hurt and he was light-headed.
Days went quick after that, and the dreary weather of Little Whinging soon cleared up. Instead of heavy rainfall, thick coats of snow and biting air that stung your skin, visualized your breath, and painted your nose red, there were brighter skies, a light breeze, and the comforting warmth of the sun, lightly gazing down onto you. Harry traded out worn winter coats and gloves with holes in the fingers for out-of-shape shirts and the eventual shorts.
The oncoming of Spring also meant the return to outdoor chores. So, after school Harry went back to 4 Priv. Drive, set down his school bag, and went out to the garden. Just like the year previous, the methodic pull and pluck of weeding and watering entranced Harry, so he didn’t have a big problem with it. Was it slightly annoying that he couldn’t spend the time he used to reading? Yes. But, overall the hours of day-light were well used.
Another new development was the creatures in the garden. Previously, Harry had only seen ants and worms. Now though, there was a garden snake— less than a foot long. It wriggled around in the underbrush, vibrant scales reflecting any shed of sunlight poking through the crowns of leaves.
When Harry found them, some Wednesday afternoon, he blinked oddly at them. He’s been told that snakes are dangerous; creatures not to be trifled with. Yet the garden snake didn’t seem bad, or cruel, or mean. So, with hesitant hands that shook, Harry reached out towards the snake.
The snake flicked it’s tongue, but swerved towards Harry anyways and ended up crawling into his hand. It wove around his arm, it’s tongue flicking and hissing the whole way through.
“Idiotic land-egg,” it seemed to hiss.
Harry blinked in shock. “ You talk! ” And, somehow, the words came out a hiss of their own.
The snake stopped it’s climb. Titled it’s head. It flicked their tongue out, beady black eyes staring into Harry’s.
“ You talk,” they parroted, a leer in their voice. “ How…intriguing. Perhaps you aren’t so idiotic as I thought.”
The snake— who’s name is Elixk, Harry learned— decided that Harry was an interesting enough character to stick around for. When Harry finished his garden chores, then, Elixk hid under his shirt and Harry shepherded him inside his cupboard.
It was interesting, sharing his space with Elixk. The snake wasn’t peculiar about anything, and more than content to stay roaming on the shelves of his cupboard— although Elixk did need to slither outside a few times a week. Elixk was very useful though, and gave insightful suggestions:
“ Why don’t you grab food at night, land-egg?” Elixk would hiss into Harry’s ear. “ Surely it would make your stomach fuller.” Elixk then slithered down Harry’s torso and wrapped around his stomach. The cool scales felt unsettling against his protruding ribs.
“ Idiotic land-egg, not having enough mice…” Elixk would hiss to himself before Harry corrected him with a foolish grin that: “ Elixk, I don’t eat mice.”
Still, Elixk’s suggestion was smart, and so twice a week— when Harry was sure Vernon was in bed and Dudley wouldn’t get up for a midnight snack— Harry would crack his cupboard open and crawl out of it. He grabbed small things— apples, slices of bread, a couple pieces of cheese— things he knew the Dursley’s wouldn’t notice, and brought them back to the cupboard. He ate his conquests ravishingly, and Elixk curled around his neck with a poor-imitation of a purr.
The extra food made life easier. Harry had more energy to do the chores assigned, and he found the consistent headaches which racked his brain lessened. His stomach seemed to fill out a little too, but extra food twice a week wasn’t nearly enough to completely cover his ribs. Thinking back on how Harry can decay things though, he got the idea to try to preserve them too. It’s awfully hard and he hasn’t gotten the hang of it yet, but Harry’s certain that he’ll figure it out soon.
Elixk’s a nice companion in the withering months. He makes Harry’s stay with the Dursley’s just a bit better. Elixk disappears sometimes though, when Harry lets him out of the garden. Says he needs to do snake-things. That’s fine though for Harry, because he gets needing to do certain things, too. When Elixk’s gone for weeks at a time, Harry occupies himself at the library more often than not. In the air-conditioned stacks, filled and bursting with books, Harry’s able to drop the meager mask he has around the Dursley’s. It’s not much, and he can never be truly vulnerable- not in a public space at least- but it is a nice relief, however small.
Petunia’s been limiting his library time though. Something that brings cold fury to Harry’s heart.
(When she tells him that he’s no longer allowed to spend afternoons at the library, and instead has to come straight home to entertain Dudley, a cold snare captures Harry’s chest. That night his cupboard’s covered in ice.)
The Spring passes; Elixk comes and goes and Harry learns to adjust to the lessening library time. If he borrows in bulk from the school-library though, that’s nobody’s business but his own.
Summer arrives with light breezes, burnt shoulders, and shorts 3 sizes too big with holes in the pockets. Harry spends the days cleaning, or getting chased down the street by Dudley’s gang. They shout, feet trampling after him, till he’s cold and on the ground— gravel scraping his hands and knees, bruises littering his stomach, and a permanent ache in his bones.
When the start of July rolls around, Harry’s out in the garden when Elixk comes back. He slithers over, a brief: “ Hello land-egg,” coming through in hisses. Harry grins at him, all broad and boyish like he should, and watches with amusement as Elixk wraps around his arm. The snake grew over the two weeks Harry hasn’t seen him. Where he used to be a foot, now he’s easily two or three. The change is shocking, but not unsettling.
Harry converses with Elixk, catching up with him. Apparently, Elixk was on a hunting trip a little while away. Harry congratulated him on his feast, and then Elixk turned the conversation over to Harry. Having someone to talk to— even if they were a snake— made something Harry thought long dead alit in his heart.
It was only when the patio door opened, that Harry realized his mistake.
Petunia was a force of nature. Her heels left pinholes in the grass, but even their sinking motion couldn’t stop her rampage. She strode up to Harry, anger lacing her face and winding around her chest. It quelled in her nose and mouth, causing her to release puffs of emotions that could only promise pain. A hurricane swirled in her eyes, turbulent blue reckoning within. She grasped Harry, pulling him back jaggedly. Her grip was iron-clad, nail’s digging into bony skin and leaving scrawling marks.
“And what,” she hissed, spewing poisons and disbelief, “are you doing Potter.”
It wasn’t a question, so much so a demand-- and a very stern, and angry demand at that. Harry gaped, unsure how to answer, even as Elixk hissed something truly foul at Petunia that only caused her grip to tighten.
“I won’t-” she spit, each word coming out in breathy puffs-- as if the very notion of having to speak them left her faint and perturbed- “have you, and you sickness. Infesting. My. House.” The potency of sickness, what with how the s seemed to boil and hiss in Petunia’s mouth, and the c and k’s sharp distinction lead Harry to believe that it wasn’t quite a sickness Petunia was describing, but rather something more sinister and…wrong to her. Her eyes spoke of horrors that Harry had not been privy to, and what with the intense gaze in which she roamed Elixk’s body, it seemed that Harry would not get answers as to her outburst. Sure, it wasn’t quite… normal, to talk or like snakes. But surely the dam being carved in his bicep was an overreaction to the unprovoked-- at least a little bit?
“You freak.” And it wasn’t the first time Harry heard those words-- far from it, actually-- but with the finality and distinction that Petunia said them with, Harry realized it was the start of a lot more ‘ freak’s.’ He’s always been odd, and weird, Harry knew, but to be a classified freak was to be a complete social outcast, privy to only the worst of Petunia’s and Vernon’s behavior. So, when the word comes hissing out of Petunia’s mouth again, cruel lips curling down in distaste and disgust, Harry can’t stop the flinch that builds up and out of him.
“ This,” Petunia uses her non-occupied hand to wave about, “ this will not happen again.” Then she’s dragging Harry in, his feet digging and pulling at the grass and dirt but Petunia hardly even cares about the floors being dirtied. (Not that she cleans them anyways).
Harry’s thrown into the kitchen, and he tries to stop his body from colliding with the counter, but he doesn’t quite accomplish it. He knows he’s always been weak for a child-- that’s what being malnourished does to you-- but now it seems amplified. He hardly catches himself on the edge of the counter, and still his stomach goes wracking into the stone, pulling out another gasp of breath. Petunia approaches with no mercy, her hand shaking and yet disciplined, and she snatches Elixk away from Harry. His snake hisses and wiggles around, trying to escape her grasp, and Harry too tries-- almost lunges forwards, with ‘no’s’ and ‘please’ falling off his tongue at a rate that they’ve never done before, but it’s all for naught. Petunia opens the drawer, pulls out the butcher knife, and Elixk is sliced in half.
His body still wiggles slightly, even as it seems blood onto the countertops and the scales seem to dim. Maybe he’s trying to see if he’s alive. It’s a morbid thought, because Harry knows the answer is no. He can only stare, in surprise and maybe in anger- or fear- or downright mourning, at his only true friend, and the carcass he’ll be forced to clean up later.
Petunia spins around, an unsettling and uneasy smile tilting her lips. It’s strained, and the edges of pink-plastered lipstick are smeared slightly as her lips fluctuate to keep up the broad grin. “Now,” she starts, words poised and proper, without any room for negotiation. Her eyes are steel again, and her smile is pushing her cheeks up against them. Her blonde hair turns unnatural in the fluorescent lights, and Harry feels like he’s staring at the second coming of an evil-spirit, here to carter him away for his misdeeds.
“Now, I will talk to Vernon about this. Yes, yes boy, here me, I will talk to him. But first--” then her nails are back in his skin, and Harry can’t bite back his yell. “First we are going to talk about this, you wretched little creature.”
Petunia brings him to church.
Harry’s been to church. He goes almost every Sunday. Almost, because while the Dursleys are Christians, and won’t have Harry being less than a Christian, they also don’t want him to be an embarrassment to the family. So. Almost. Now though, it’s constant. Saturday and Sunday mass. Youth groups. Special meetings with the Pastor over tea in the afternoons. Petunia brings him to church, and then she brings him to church again, and then she brings him to church again. His shoulder and biceps are red with swollen hand grips, and so Harry has to wear longer sleeves despite the sweltering weather, but it’s not even that hard because for once Petunia’s putting him in Dudley’s only semi-used outfits so he’ll be presentable for church.
The pastor, Harry finds, is not to his liking. The man’s both too cowardly and too outright, all broad with smiles one-moment and reserved and weak the next. During afternoon tea Harry sits, obedient, and stares down at his cup, even as Petunia and the pastor weave tales together and condemn him.
That’s another thing, the condemning. Harry learns all types of things he didn’t realize before, because, even when he did go to church, he didn’t pay much attention. Now though, it’s the only thing he can give his attention to. Harry learns that the devil’s bad, and he has the devil in him, so he’s bad too. Petunia says his mom and dad both had the devil in them, so it’s their fault that he’s rotten, and all he can do to stop being rotten is to pray and be good. By good, Petunia means he needs to be quiet and cook and clean and make up for all the space he took over. By good, Petunia also means to never, ever, be odd or do his odd things again. His strangeness.
Church, and the death of Elixk, is probably why Summer took a turn for the worst. Harry can breeze by it just fine usually. Begrudgingly, but just fine in the end. Not this year though, not after this much. Perhaps he should’ve seen it happen-- Harry knows he has a little bit of a temper, what with the fire and ice that he’s not supposed to be able to do. Perhaps he should’ve tried to reign it in more, if only so he could get through the 10 years (and oh, 10 years is such a long time, what Harry would give to even have to spend only half of that with the Dursleys) easier. But nothing ever easy, and so of course there’s an incident.
It happens during dinner. Harry’s returned from church, to having to cook, and finally he’s able to sit down and enjoy the limited food he’s allowed. Ever since Elixk departed, he hasn’t found the nerve in him to sneak out and take more than what he’s allotted, so his body’s back to being unnaturally thin, and rigid, and short. Still though, Harry’s exhausted and just wants to enjoy his short lived dinner. Of course then, Vernon has to go on talking.
His fork stabs into his plate, his permanent scowl and red-beat complexion deepening with each bite. “Listen here boy,” and that’s another thing, the way the Dursleys spit the word boy. It festers fire and ice in Harry’s heart; sets a steady resolve that demands payback. “Petunia’s been taking you all everywhere recently, leaving our poor Dudley alone.” Another, deeper, scowl. “And I won’t have for it, boy. You better sort you and your… weirdness out before Dudley here has to.” It’s with a bright grin that Dudley responds, seeming thoroughly pleased with Vernon’s appointment of duty. Harry doesn’t respond though, meagerly keeps eating.
“Boy?” Vernon pries, disgust seeping into his tone. “Answer me when I speak to you.”
“Yes Uncle Vernon. I understand,” Harry complies-- because that’s all they want: A good, complying, servant.
Vernon huffs. Turns to face his wife. “It’s his parents, god awful beings. Don’t even know how your sister…” Harry’s forehead twitches. He never knew his parents, and- truly- he doesn’t know if he wants to know them, considering they’re why he’s with the Dursley’s in the first place, yet there’s some integral part of him that just can’t stand to have them criticized. Harry doesn’t know why, but it makes his chest pull and head swim.
“They were just horrible,” Petunia agrees, sickly sweet. Then she reaches over, a bony hand clasping onto Dudley’s fat one-- “So happy our baby boy never had to see them, lest they corrupt him with their devilish ways…”
“This boy knows something about the devil.” Vernon jabs his fork at Harry, narrowing his eyes when he doesn’t answer again. “Don’t you boy? Know something about the devil? What’s all this church and school for if you can’t understand a simple question.”
Swallowing the building bud of anger in his chest, Harry ducks his head. Subservient. Keep it subservient. “Yes Uncle Vernon.”
“Yeah, you know about the devil,” and he ponders on- waxing about Harry’s devilishness and the horrible, oddities of his parents.
It’s only when Dudley’s seemingly gone bored of the conversation, does he seem to spice it up a bit-- if only for his own entertainment. “Say Dad,” he plies, curious and calm, “I thought I saw Harry reading before. Wasn’t the Bible though…”
Harry narrows his eyes at Dudley, unsure of the twinkling mischievous spark.
“Reading?” Vernon questions, “What were you reading?” It’s gruff and, Harry knows, not from a place of curiosity but rather contempt.
“I thought it was a fiction book,” Dudley muses. “Something about…witches or another.”
“Witches?” Petunia’s eyes grow wild, freaked out and large. “Witches?” She repeats, as if she didn’t hear it the first time.
Dudley nods and gives a ‘mmh!’ of confirmation, but before he’s even finished Vernon’s pushing out his chair and stomping over. His face’s cherry red, his hands rearing up, and each step shakes the floor. Harry’s not even cautious to admit he has no idea what he’s done wrong, because, really, what has he done wrong?
“You’ve done it this time boy!” Vernon roars, and hits him full-fist against the jaw. There’s a popping sound and the sure-coming of a bruise, something sore and agitated that each movement makes Harry wince. That’s not all it is though, because Vernon doesn’t stop there. He approaches Harry from where he landed and starts pounding him in. Dudley comes over and cheers, and then Vernon drags him in and tells him to give it a go, and all Harry can do is scream and hope the sounds of his tears overcome the sound of cracking bones.
Minutes, maybe seconds, or maybe hours later, Harry seems to not notice how much time passes- too enraptured in the feeling of pain, pain, pain, does that odd, weird thing that Petunia so readily calls the devil, seemingly manifest. There’s a bluish, white light, and then it’s a weak shield surrounding Harry’s body and giving him a moment of relief. He groans at the abrupt stop of fists, and feet, and shifts slightly-- groaning even more at the ache and bruises blooming throughout his body. He can’t move one of his legs, not properly. The relief is short lived though, because as soon as Vernon sees the shield, it seems to enrage him even more. Shouts of ‘ boy!’ and ‘Devil!’ and ‘freak!’ echo along until Harry can’t keep it up. The next thing he sees is a pointed kick for his stomach.
The pillow in the cupboard under the stairs in 4 Priv. Drive is flat and uncomfortable. Harry turns his head, moaning to himself at the pain that laces up and down his body. Still, he knows his natural clock by now, and he knows that he has to make breakfast.
Harry lifts the blankets off of him, and opens the cupboard. He shifts over, trying not to wince, before standing up. Only, he can’t stand up-- not fully, and Harry falls own forwards, only able to use sore-arms to catch himself.
The boy winces again and struggles to get upwards. He finds his left leg is uncooperating, and anytime it so much as twitches there’s a lacing, fiery hot pain arching up it. Harry wishes to cool it in ice, but after last night he’s sure the beating would be much, much worse. Even if he still doesn’t understand why last night happened.
Harry makes do with his bum-leg and his bruise-abraded body. He limps throughout the kitchen, cooking and getting everything ready, and when the Dursleys come downstairs he averts his gaze. Vernon gives him a once-over though, followed by an approving huff.
Petunia won’t take him out. Not to church, and she won’t let Dudley take him out either, so as far as Harry’s concerned he has the day to himself. He makes sure to do his chores thoroughly, scrub until his already sore arms are aching, and then he hobbles over to his cupboard and climbs in. Within the sanctity of his room, Harry ices his leg and hisses in mild relief. Hopefully, the days grow on better, not worse than this.
The days get worse. Harry’s leg doesn’t heal, despite that all his bruises are well gone and the aches only wrack his body sometimes. Even more, Petunia takes to locking Harry inside the cupboard at night, and even during the day sometimes. Harry’s ribs poke out and prod his shirts more than they used to-- which he didn’t even know was possible-- but the lack of Elixk, curled up in his shirt while Harry wastes away in the cupboard is really the cherry on top to the horribleness that is his life. At least he found some new oddities, no matter how he can’t openly do them. Ever. Harry found a way to make a ball of light, which is very good for reading in the dark. Only school books or non-fiction books though, the Dursleys confiscated anything fiction. Harry also got quite good at lock-picking and preservation, something that makes him able to get food even when he’s locked in the cupboard for a week or more.
His leg doesn’t heal though. Not at all. Harry’s still hobbling along, hissing back pain, even weeks after the incident. It’s only when spikes run up Harry’s leg and his foot twists some way that causes him to trip, the cake he was carrying to the dinner table splattering to the ground, that the Dursley's actually bother to take him to a doctor.
The office is sterile and clean. It’s the brightest room Harry’s ever been in, and just sitting there on the patient table with Petunia next to him, perfectly poise, is enough to make Harry feel like he got a concussion too.
When the doctor comes into the room, he greets Harry and Petunia. His accident is soft, compared to Vernon’s brutish British accident, and Harry can already tell he’s a genteel fellow. The doctor does a normal check-up with Harry, checks his reflexes and all that, but then he’s shepherded away to a different room where they lay a thick, heavy cloth over his chest and put him under a machine.
An x-ray they called it.
The doctor brings Harry back to the room with Petunia. Harry tries to get back up on the patient table, and he does, but not without some difficulty. The doctor stares at him with something akin to pity, and a fire lights itself in Harry’s chest again.
The doctor says something or another, about a permanent stress-fracture or perhaps broken bones beyond comparison? The details are vague and the medical terms leave Harry’s head swarming, but Petunia’s nodding is very solemn so it mustn’t be very good. In the end, the doctor hands Petunia a slip of paper and then they’re leaving.
Harry spies the paper. It has on it the name for a crutch company. But, 2 weeks after the doctor's appointment, there’s still no crutches. There are more days in the cupboard, however, as punishment for dropping the cake. Harry works on levitation inside his cupboard that week.
The Dursleys only buy him crutches, weird ones that hook onto his fore-arms, rather than under his armpits like Harry sees on television, the week before school starts. Petunia hands them over with a scowl, and Vernon just seems to ignore him completely. Dudley called him an invalid, and then a few more words, but Harry doesn’t bother trying to light his shirt on fire because then Petunia might take the crutches away.
They make walking much easier than it’s been. Not as easy as it was before Harry got the living daylights beat out of him, but easier then it was without them. Harry finds he’s weaker in the left leg, and that if he really needs to he can only use the left forearm crutch, but it’s still much more comfortable to use both. So, with the week leading up to school, Harry gets himself familiar with the new rhythm of walking, trying to compensate with his weaker leg and the coordination of two strange items. By the start of September though, he’s finally able to coordinate the clicking of wood hitting the ground, and each step. The first day of school a wad of paper is spat into his face, and somebody calls him a retard and laughs, but Harry can walk now, and he hasn’t had to go to church in over a month, and Elixk may be dead but Harry’s practicing and getting stronger, and so soon- when he’s 16 and he can leave, he’ll leave and burn everything to the ground. He can’t now. He’s not nearly strong enough, or safe enough, and Harry doesn’t have enough plans to secure a life for himself after that; but, when he’s older and has all of those things, there won’t be anything stopping him from lighting a match. The last year’s been hell, and the next 10 are sure to be even worse, but Harry can’t leave so he has to stick through it and endure.
He can’t leave. Not yet. But soon. And that’ll have to be enough, for now.
Little did Harry know, he got to leave much sooner.