Chapter Text
It was a beautiful day in Privet Drive, the sun was shining brightly in the pale blue, cloudless sky and the distant sounds of children and birds going about their summer activities created pleasant hum in the background. According to the BBC weatherman, this was set to be the finest summer in years. And yet, the skinny, black-haired boy kneeling in the flowerbeds of number 4 was more miserable than ever.
Harry Potter had always had a dislike of the summer holidays unusual for the average teenage boy. Although, the average teenage boy was not a student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and nor where they forced to spend their holidays in the company of the Dursley family. These two facts alone accounted for the unhappy summers he had become accustomed to in the two previous years since he had started school. This year was unique in that he also had the added fact of having recently watched his schoolmate being murdered by the newly resurrected wizard who had been responsible for the deaths of Harrys parents, which was doing nothing to improve his mood.
It was these thoughts which occupied his mind as he continued digging through the dry earth in search of any weeds that had hitherto escaped his unenthused eye. He had been crouched in this position with his nose almost touching the shrubbery for long enough that his back ached and both of his feet had gone entirely numb. His head pounded from the heat and thirst; he had briefly considered retreating to the kitchen for a glass of water but the prospect of running into his Aunt Petunia whilst:
A. slacking off from work and
B. tracking mud into her pristine house
had convinced him to stay put. No doubt the headache had been exacerbated by the pitiful amount of sleep he’d had the previous night. Memories of the fateful night at the graveyard from the end of the school year, apparently not content with terrorising his waking moments, also insisted on recreating themselves in vivid detail on the increasingly rare occasion that he managed to nod off.
After a final once over of the flowerbeds convinced him that all unwanted vegetation had been successfully removed, he brushed off his hands and leant back on the grass. Harry stretched out his protesting spine and took a moments break as feeling slowly returned to his feet through a wave of uncomfortable pins and needles. The relief at finally having completed his laborious task was soon replaced with dismay at the loss of his only excuse for staying out of the house and, by extension, away from his relatives. Though the thought of leaving the property entirely and taking advantage of the good weather with a stroll to the neighbourhood park would have been appealing, since his last encounter with Voldemort, Harry found himself gripped with uncharacteristic caution and paranoia. Every person who walked past the neatly manicured hedges could be a spy for Voldemort, every unexplained noise an apparition signalling an imminent ambush, every shadow spotted in his periphery a death eater launching an unforgivable curse his way. The lack of any meaningful correspondence from Dumbledore or his friends was doing little to reassure him despite his ongoing self-assurances that no news was surely good news. At this point a letter informing him of Voldemort’s plot to sneak through the backdoor and murder Harry in his sleep would be preferable to the complete radio silence on the subject he’d received so far, Harry thought bitterly. His friends had still kept in fairly frequent communication with him and though the contents of these letters were more mundane than Harry would have liked, he couldn’t blame them for it. He assumed that Hermione was just as much in the dark as he was and while Ron’s dad worked for the Ministry, he didn’t imagine that many of the “what shall we do about He Who Must Not Be Named coming back?” meetings took place in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office. The real object of Harry’s resentment was Professor Dumbledore himself. Not that he and the headmaster had ever been pen pals before, but surely facing off against one of the worst dark wizards of all time was cause enough to drop a line his way. Evidently not as Harry’s sleep-deprived imagination had been left to fill in the blanks of what You know Who could be plotting. If Voldemort could read minds he might want to think about jotting some of his ideas down, as Harry was sure they had to be more diabolical that anything the dark wizard himself could come up with.
On that disturbing thought, Harry finally dragged himself to his feet and cautiously made his way to the backdoor. Seeing that the path was clear, he wiped of his trainers as best as he could on the mat and hurried into the kitchen making a beeline for the sink. A few minutes of scrubbing his hands, followed by a further few minutes wiping down the sides of the sink, had Harry clean enough to avoid immediate eviction should his aunt appear. He grabbed a glass from the draining board and filled it from the tap before chugging it without pause for breath, once he had repeated this procedure a further three times he rinsed the glass and returned it. He could hear the hum of voices from whatever mindless soap his aunt was watching drifting through from the living room indicating the coast was clear for him to make his escape upstairs to the sanctuary of his bedroom. Mindful of the carpeted hallway, Harry removed his trainers and carried them as he crept out of the kitchen, through the hall where his old cupboard now stored his school trunk and broomstick, and finally up the stairs to his room. Closing the door behind him, Harry let out a breath of relief.
The room itself held nothing to justify his eagerness to reach it save for a dearth of Dursley. It was sparsely decorated, containing only a small chest of drawers, a rickety single bed and an old, battered desk with a rundown office chair missing three of its four wheels. Most of the objects scattered about the room weren’t even Harrys but rather artifacts of when the room had been his cousin Dudley’s 2nd bedroom before it had become Harry’s 1st. The objects in question were mainly broken toys and miscellaneous books whose previous owner had never so much as cracked the spines of. Much to Harry’s delight, Dudley had been absent from the house for much of the summer thus far due to his duties as commander-in-chief of a gaggle of neighbourhood boys known for tormenting anyone weaker or smaller than them, vandalism, destruction of property and general ruffianism and hoodlumery. In addition to reducing his chances of falling ill of one of the dark lords nefarious plots, Harrys propensity for remaining indoors had the more tangible benefit of having removed him as this gang of hooligans main target.
Having deposited his shoes by the door, Harry made his way over to the window to see if Hedwig had returned from her last delivery. The sky was sadly clear of any notable activity, the road however was not. Harry groaned as he saw his uncle Vernon’s car pulling into the driveway, the weeding must have taken longer than he’d thought for his uncle to already have finished work. The front door slammed downstairs, and Harry’s pulse began to quicken. Maybe he’d be lucky today, maybe a long, hard day directing drills or whatever had made his uncle lethargic and tired, maybe –
“BOY!”
Then again, maybe not.
Harry groaned as he forced himself leave the safe haven of his room.
“Here uncle Vernon.” Harry called dully from the top of the stairs. After a series of thudding footsteps, he was greeted by his uncles large, moustached face.
“Slacking off again, are you?” Snapped his uncle, through said moustache.
“No sir.”
“Finished your chores today, have you?” He demanded, narrowing his beady eyes in suspicion.
“Yes sir.”
“All of them?” Uncle Vernon puffed out his chest importantly before continuing, “I’m sure you’re waited on hand and foot at that freak school of yours but not here! Here you’ll actually have to put some work in to earn your keep. And don’t even think about whining to any of your lot, it won’t do a lick of good for you. If any of those freaks actually cared they’d have taken you off our hands years ago, we certainly wouldn’t have put up a fight.”
Harry had to fight the urge to laugh at this, imagining how furious his uncle would be to know that he sounded exactly like one of his dreaded freaks in particular. Professor Snape was constantly asserting his opinion that Harry was treated like royalty over the summer holidays, and here was Uncle Vernon, parroting the exact same rubbish in reverse. Harry shuddered to think what would happen if the two men ever had the opportunity to gang up on him at the same time. Although they’d probably be more likely to kill each other first. Or rather Snape would kill Uncle Vernon in using some horrific method detailed only in the restricted section of the library and then turn his wand to Harry.
Uncle Vernon pulled Harry from these unpleasant thoughts as he delivered his tirades finishing blow. “Face it boy, the only place that will have you is here, and while you’re here you’ll do what I tell you. Do you understand me?”
“Yes sir” Harry replied, eyes trained on his socks. Part of his brain was insisting that the reality was much more complicated than his uncle could ever hope to be privy to. Of course there were other people who wanted him! Sirius wanted Harry to come live with him, he would be living with him right now in fact, if it weren’t for the small matter of his godfather being a wanted criminal. Or the Weasleys! Mrs Weasley had indicated on several occasions that she thought of Harry as family, if it weren’t for how tight their finances were already with all their own children… Not to mention the fact that anyone taking in Harry was also making themselves prime targets to Voldemort (the less uncle Vernon knew about that the better).
The other, increasingly loud part of his brain was unconvinced. None of those people had ever spent any considerable time with Harry. Sirius only saw a younger version of his dead best friend in Harry, and Mrs Weasley was probably just doing what any adult would for their child’s friend. When Harry was in first year he had begged Dumbledore not to make him come back here, to let him stay at Hogwarts instead of with his awful relatives. He had been resolutely turned down. Maybe Dumbledore knew something about him that Harry himself did not. Maybe the headmaster thought that anyone who Harry stayed with would end up feeling the exact same way about him as the Dursleys did.
Harry shuffled his socked feet, scowling at the hole by his left big toe. Realising this was the only response he would get, Uncle Vernon huffed and trampled through to the kitchen with Harry following eyes still downcast. Snatching up the scrap of paper detailing his daily tasks from the kitchen counter, he began listing them off like a drill sergeant.
“Mowed the lawn?”
“Done”
“Cleaned the patio bricks?”
“Done”
“Trimmed the hedges?”
“Done”
“Cleared the gutters?”
“Done”
“Pruned the maples?”
“Done”
“Washed the windows?”
“Done”
“Weeded the flowerbeds?”
“Done”
“Cleaned Dudley’s bike?”
“Er..”
A brief expression of triumph flickered over Uncle Vernon’s face before transforming into a ruddy mask of rage.
“Aha! Think you can get away with being a useless layabout it my house, do you?” He snarled.
Harry desperately tried to explain. “Dudley’s been out all day! On his bike! How am I supposed to clean it when it’s not even-“
“Enough!” Roared Uncle Vernon, spittle flying out from his moustache area. “I don’t want to hear your bally excuses!” He surged forwards grabbing Harry roughly by the front of his t-shirt. “You’ve always trying to test your luck, well guess what boy? It’s just run out!” He punctuated this final statement by shaking Harry’s collar causing him to smack the back of his head against a nearby cupboard. Harry squeezed his eye shut as pain exploded through his skull and sparks danced across his vision. Letting go of his shirt, Uncle Vernon shoved the boy towards the hallway before regaining his grip, this time on Harry’s lower arm. Vernon proceeded to drag him through the hall and up the stairs pausing only to wrench his arm forward when Harry lost his footing halfway up causing the teen to gasp in pain. He held on to the skinny wrist with bruising force as he ripped the door open and swung Harry into the room. There was a sickening popping sound as Harry’s shoulder was pulled forcefully into an entirely unnatural position. A cry escaped his lips as he felt fire radiating out in all directions from the dislocated joint. Finally releasing his hold, Uncle Vernon towered over his cowering nephew, face set in an expression of grim satisfaction.
“You’ve proved just how much of an undeserving wastrel you are, just like your father. I won’t tolerate it any more boy! You can stay right here in this room until I decide to give you another chance. A few weeks without food should teach you just how good you’ve had it you ungrateful freak!” With that he marched outside, slamming the door behind him. Harry heard the familiar sounds of the heavy metal padlock clicking into place.
The young wizard stood barely upright in the middle of his room, breathing heavily. Straightening himself up, he took note of his injuries, the shoulder was the most problematic, but he could see large, hand-shaped bruises already beginning to form on his wrist and the back of his head was still smarting. Reaching up with his good arm, he felt a sizeable lump through his hair that sang with renewed pain at the light brush of his fingertips. As far as he could tell, his ailments were, at present, outside of his realm of medical knowledge. He had seen tough looking men on Dudley’s TV shows pop their dislocated shoulders easily back into place and continue on with whatever tough looking man thing they were in the middle of, but Harry had never paid much attention to their technique. Not to mention the fact that even slight movements from his bad arm caused shooting pains to zip up and down its length making his eyes water. Probably best to leave it for now, as long as his arm didn’t fall off by September he could make up some rubbish excuse and Madame Pomfery would have it sorted before he could say “criminal negligence”. Through the haze of pain, the thought drifted through his mind that he was lucky the bars on his window from summers past hadn’t also made a return.
The next day found him bitterly cursing that thought as he resolutely avoided looking at the looming form of his uncle through the window and the droning whine of his power tools which were swiftly severing his lifeline to the wizarding world. Harry briefly wondered if the drill his uncle used was a Grunnings original, surely a lifetime supply was part of his contract or at the very least an employee discount. Harry scowled at the wall, his mood had officially reached an all-time low. His shoulder was more painful than ever and that in combination with the lump on his head had made finding a tolerable sleeping position downright impossible. This had hardly been the first time that his uncle had manhandled him so Harry knew better than to ask about seeing a doctor. In the past the best he could hope for was sneaking an ibuprofen from the bathroom but with the lock on his door and his wand securely in the cupboard under the stairs, that wouldn’t be a possibility this time. Finally Uncle Vernon’s handywork was complete and he retired to the lounge to put his feet up with a cuppa after a job well done. Harry stood listlessly in front of the window, taking in the familiar thick metal bars now adorning it. He eyed Hedwig’s empty cage in the corner of his room thinking how lucky it was that she had been absent during last nights “incident”. He wouldn’t put anything past his uncle when he got into that state, at least, anything that would bring Harry more misery. As it was, Hedwig would be able to take care of herself, or maybe stay with Errol at the Weasleys, either way she would be safe and out of reach of Vernon Dursley. At this, the first pleasant thing Harry had thought all day, his stomach growled insistently, reminding him of his current predicament. Face once again set in a scowl, Harry plopped on the edge of his bed. There was nothing he could do to appease his empty stomach, his Honeydukes supplies had not been rationed with any forbearance, disappearing completely after a single week back at the Dursleys. Mrs Weasley could usually be relied upon to provide all manner of homemade fare when his birthday rolled around, but that wouldn’t been for almost a month. As it was, Harry hadn’t eaten anything since the single piece of toast he’s scrounged for breakfast the previous day. He was used to going without healthy amounts of food while at the Dursleys, but if his uncle had been serious about not feeding him for weeks… Surely his relatives wouldn’t actually let him starve to death in their own home, right? Right? The very fact that Harry couldn’t say for certain caused his stomach to twist for a reason unrelated to hunger this time. Aside from being hungry, thirsty and injured, Harry was also incredibly bored. He had read and re-read the letters he’d gotten from Ron and Hermione so many times already that he was sure he could recite them from memory. All his schoolbooks had met the same cupboardy fate as his wand and other school supplies so Harry didn’t even have his homework assignments to keep him entertained. He had already resigned himself to starting the year once again with mostly illegible scraps of paper scribbled on the Hogwarts express being the only things he had to show his teachers for the months he’d had off school. He was sure Snape would take particular delight in berating him for the “pathetic drivel the Great Harry Potter deigned to submit”. It would be more illegible than ever this year courtesy of his gammy arm Harry thought, his scowl deepening. After stewing in what was surely well deserved self-pity for a while, he dragged himself out of bed and to the far corner of his bedroom. Kneeling down, he carefully pried the loose floorboard out of its place revealing the few positions which were far to precious for him to have allowed them anywhere near his uncles clutches. Moving aside past letters from Sirius and his friends, including the meagre collection of birthdays cards he’d accrued throughout his life, he found the object he was looking for. The small photo album Hagrid had given him in his first year which contained the only pictures he had of his parents. Gently lifting it out if its hiding place, Harry returned to his bed placing the book carefully on the duvet in front of him. He turned to the first page and ever so slowly made his way through the entire book, savouring each page, pouring over every detail of his mother and fathers faces. Harry imagined what his life would have been like if Voldemort had never come after them, if his parents hadn’t died protecting their son’s life. He would have started at Hogwarts already knowing all about the wizarding world, he would have met Ron on the train like before. Or maybe they would already know each other, most wizarding families had some connection, perhaps they would have already been best mates and only had to befriend Hermione at school to complete their trio. He was sure that any version of himself would be just as close with his two fellow Gryffindors. He couldn’t quite imagine having made his first friend before the age of eleven though he knew that was what normal kids did, normal kids with normal families, normal parents who loved them. Once he’d got to school he would get letters from his parents every week like some his peers did and occasionally some from his dads friends Sirius and Lupin. Probably also from their other friend Peter Pettigrew, who hadn’t betrayed them in this timeline, but he didn’t want to think about that. He would write back to his mum and dad, talking about quidditch and school. He’d probably spend a lot of his letters complaining about his horrible potions professor, he wondered what his parents would have to say about that. Would they come into the school and berate Snape for treating their son so terribly? He thought that’s what parents were supposed to do – stick up for their children when they were being mistreated. Although none of the other parents ever complained about the potions masters constant bullying and belittling of his students. At the very least he would have two adults who would listen to his problems and care about what he said. Only small problems of course, Snape took points from me for no reason in class, Malfoy said something mean, normal problems every kid has at school. This version of Harry Potter wouldn’t be the Boy Who Lived. He wouldn’t have faced Quirrell in first year, he wouldn’t have had to kill the basilisk in second year or save his godfather from the dementors kiss in third year. Harry felt his face getting hot as he thought about what also wouldn’t have happened this past year. He would never have had his name put into the goblet, never have competed in the Triwizard tournament. Cedric Diggory would never have been killed. Harry sighed, looking around his small room. He wouldn’t be here either. Every summer holiday he would go back to his parents. To his home. Where he was wanted, where he was loved and protected. Harry blinked away tears as he tried to imagine what that would feel like. His eyes drifted towards the newly erected bars on his window. Wishing he was somewhere else hadn’t worked when he’d been a child lying in his dark cupboard and it certainly wasn’t going to work now. It didn’t matter what it would feel like to have a place to go home to where he would be met with unconditional love because that was a feeling Harry would never experience. The sun had set by now, the orange glow from the streetlamp outside cast long thin shadows from the metal bars on the wall opposite the window. Harry returned his precious book to its hideaway and resigned himself to sleep. After an extended period of trial and error (mostly error) he finally found a position that didn’t aggravate his injuries. He wasn’t exactly comfortable, lying on his stomach with his arm stiffly by his side, but he was tired enough that before long he had fallen into a fitful sleep. As ever, he dreams centred around that night at the graveyard. In a series of flashes he watched as Cedric’s dead body sprawled across the grass then wormtail approaching him with the knife and finally the fully corporeal form of Lord Voldemort reaching out to touch him. He awoke with a start, painfully jolting his shoulder but barely noticing due to the far more intense pain emanating from his scar. He clapped his palm over his sweat drenched forehead, holding it there as the stabbing sensation slowly dissipated. Pale morning light was flooding into his bedroom and, looking over to the window, he realized what had woken him up. Hedwig was perched precariously on the edge of one of the bars, tapping insistently though a gap to the windowpane. Harry hurried out of bed and over to her.
“Shh shh it’s okay girl, I hear you. I can’t let you in though, obviously” Harry told her, apologetically. The owl paused looking unimpressed for a moment before resuming her attempt at drilling a hole through the glass.
“Stop tapping, I really can’t let you in. If you keep making noise you’ll wake the Dursleys and then I’ll really be in trouble.” Harry begged, trying to wave the persistent bird away.
“BOY!” Came the enraged roar from across the house.
Too late, Harry thought miserably. He heard the thundering of footsteps in the hall and then the sound of his uncle fumbling with the key to his room.
“Hedwig you really need to get out of here now, Uncle Vernon will have you for Sunday roast if he catches you” Harry whispered desperately but his stubborn owl stayed put looking determined. He spun around as the door crashed open revealing his pyjamaed uncle staring at him with an expression of pure murderous rage so intense that Harry unconsciously shrunk backwards into the wall.
“THIS IS THE FINAL STRAW BOY!” Yelled Mr Dursley striding towards him. Harry didn’t have time to think of anything to placate his uncle before he was sent flying across the room by a vicious slap that rang out across the room with a loud *CRACK*. The large man stood above the crumpled form of his nephew with his fist raised to strike.
Hedwig had seen quite enough. Taking one last look at her fallen master, she took off into the air and sped North using every ounce of power in her snowy white wings.
Far up in the highlands of Scotland, Professor Albus Dumbledore was enjoying a quiet walk across the empty grounds of Hogwarts. The sun had reached its apex in the clear blue sky and was shining down on the old man as he rounded the corner of the lake. Gazing out over the treetops of the forbidden forest, he spotted a dark shape on the horizon. He watched as it drew closer, soon he was able to make out the shape of its wings as it soared towards him. As the creature passed over the last trees at the forests edge Albus recognized the snowy white owl as belonging to one Harry James Potter. The headmaster was not surprised, he had been expecting the boy to contact him after the events of last term. As the owl came more clearly into view, however, the man’s eyebrows furrowed in concern. This was clearly not an owl sent on a regular delivery. For one thing, Albus could see no letter attached to the bird’s leg, and her normally pristine feathers were ruffed and wind beaten. Hedwig let out a screech on approach and dived towards the headmaster before swooping back into the air. Landing on the mans outstretched arm she began insistently pecking at his magenta robe all the while fixing him with a piercing look.
“Is your master in trouble?” He asked, a feeling of anxiety growing in his chest. Hedwig cawed at this and took off once again into the air, circling the headmaster.
“Very well, I shall ensure the matter is taken care of. Thank you, Hedwig.”
The owl gave a final hoot before she flew off in the direction of the owlery, presumably for a much-deserved rest now that her mission was complete.
Albus Dumbledore sped up to his office with a speed many would think impossible for a man of his age. Finally throwing open the door he rushed to the ornate fireplace, grabbing a fistful of floo powder and throwing it into the coals without hesitation. There was really no time to waste. Harry Potter was in danger. Dropping to his knees the old wizard called out, “Severus Snape.”
A mere five minutes later found the disgruntled potions master sat in an uncomfortably deep armchair across from the headmaster.
“Mr Potter appears to be in need of assistance, Severus.” Said the old man, levelling him with an inscrutable gaze over his half moon spectacles. Severus resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
“Yes headmaster, you mentioned that over the floo. I fail to see how that has caused you to interrupt my brewing by dragging me to your office.” He replied, trying to keep his tone controlled. The potion he had been working on was at a very delicate stage, every minute he remained out of his lab increased the likelihood he would be forced to scrap it and start over. If there was one thing the Dark Lord hated more than potential traitors, it was potential traitors who did not complete their assignments on time. Dumbledore gave him a disapproving look.
“I want you to check on him at his relatives house. I would go myself but I have urgent business on the continent that I really cannot delay.” Severus’s gaped at him.
“Me?! Why on earth would you want me to check on the brat? Surely there are dozens of perfectly capable wizards lining up to ensure the safety of the Boy Who Lived.” He said through gritted teeth. His knuckles were white from gripping the arms of his chair. This was typical of Dumbledore, he risked his life on a daily basis as a spy for the light side and yet the headmaster was constantly asking for more, regardless of Severus’s own feelings or wishes.
“No doubt you’re right Severus.” Dumbledore replied, his calmness never faltering. “But none who have earned my trust so completely.”
“Do you even know that he is in real danger? He could well be caught up in some ridiculous teenage melodrama of no importance.” Severus snapped. He could picture it now, self-important Potter spurring the forces into action over something no doubt as trivial as a stain on his favourite jumper.
“If that is the case, as I dearly hope it is, then checking on him will cost nothing more than an afternoon outing. Not to mention providing an old man some peace of mind.” The headmaster said, clasping his hands together on the desk. Clearly, he thought this to be the end of the conversation. A done deal.
“I don’t have a choice, do it?” Severus asked, resigned.
“Of course you have a choice, you always have a choice, my boy. I would very much like you to do this, though I cannot make the decision for you.” Dumbledores blue eyes twinkled across the table from him. Severus looked away, staring unseeing to the quidditch pitch through the window.
“What is his relatives address?”