Chapter Text
"Quit your scratching, boy! Do you have fleas or something?"
Harry drops his hand from his hairline, biting the inside of his cheek to stave off the itch on his temples and his own short temper. "No, Uncle Vernon," he grumbles, scraping burnt bits out of the frying pan and into the bin.
There's a huff from behind him, and the need to scratch increases. "Better not! Probably would have some kind of freakish fleas, wouldn't you? I'll toss you out on your ear if you do."
Threats of that caliber are rather old-hat at this point, but he'd rather not go without lunch and dinner today, missing breakfast of any sort as is. Harry dunks the pan into the sink with a sigh, and washes the breakfast plates clean, worries a small bloody spot on his lip. He tries to drink as many handfuls of water he can between plates, cups, forks and spoons, but it's not many before Aunt Petunia banishes him out into the backyard until noon.
Alone in the relative shade of the house for the moment, he wipes the leftover water from his lips and presses damp fingers to his temples, tries to soothe the twin points of irritation. It works for all of one blessed second before returning worse, an increasingly annoying heat and burn. With a long suffering groan, Harry makes for the shed and tools.
It's hard going to make the backyard presentable as quickly as he usually can after term ends, distracted with wandering, dirty hands. It's been at least a three weeks, and he's barely a third of the way done on top of the newest project. Potted plants, some for inside, some for out, and Harry's sure cow manure smeared across his forehead will be one way to lose lunch privileges for sure. Stay on task, don't think, don't think—
The rest of the day is uneventful, without further incident.
Until Harry goes to take a shower that is, and comes out of it with a blackhead like a welt festering where he's been itching all day.
Thankfully, it's just the one, only incredibly sore to the touch, and encouraging a splitting headache. Despairing, he can only put a band-aid over it and hustle back to his room before anyone can see, hope reverently it's gone by morning.
Except, the moon shines bright though his window much, much later as sweat marks his brow, and pain aches deep in his skull. Hedwig's silent in her cage, but he decides to ask, in the chance he missed it.
Harry asks her, croaks really, "Any mail, girl?" and she can only give a soft hoot in return, talons griped tight round her perch.