Chapter Text
Harry rubbed his eyes and moved the torch slowly over his textbook, pausing every few seconds to make sure nobody heard the soft scratching of his quill against parchment.
Privet Drive was quiet. It settled around him like a sickness sinking into his bones. The television murmured downstairs, a cupboard door closed, footsteps passed his room and moved on. Harry let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.
He shifted ever so slightly and hissed when his ribs protested. It was nothing new. Pain had become familiar to Harry, it was constant, predictable. Almost comforting in the way things you expect always are.
He had believed that when he got to Hogwarts, things would change. He had hoped someone would notice the oddly small, too-thin eleven-year-old who arrived with second-hand clothes and flinched at raised voices. He had tried, once or twice, to talk about living with his relatives. Teachers brushed it off. Adults always did. And every year, without fail, he was expected to run into danger and save the school.
When he did, when he stood in front of something that wanted him dead. It was never for Dumbledore. Never for the school. Never for the grand idea of the Boy Who Lived, saviour of the wizarding world.
It was for Ron, who laughed too loudly and stood too close when he was afraid.
For Hermione, who believed rules could be bent when needed.
For the warmth that didn’t vanish the moment he failed to earn it.
Harry finished the last line and rolled the parchment carefully before sliding it into his bag. He switched off the torch. Darkness pressed close, familiar and heavy. Downstairs, Vernon laughed too loudly. Heavy footsteps moved toward the front door, which opened to Aunt Marge’s booming voice.
Harry closed his eyes. A soft rustle drew his attention to the window. Hedwig shifted in her cage, the thick bolt gleaming in the moonlight. Harry looked at her and swallowed. “I know, girl,” he murmured.
Vernon had locked the cage days ago. Slowly. Deliberately. Watching Harry’s face with that same malicious glint he wore whenever he tore up letters from Ron and Hermione, a twisted pleasure that never quite reached his eyes.
“BOY. GET DOWN HERE. NOW.”
Harry sighed as he rolled off his bed and eased his door open. He took the stairs carefully, avoiding the loose step that creaked halfway down. It was a useful thing to know. Harry collected useful things the way other people collected hobbies. How to breathe quietly, how to move without being noticed.
Aunt Marge looked remarkably like her brother. They might have passed for twins if not for Vernon’s walrus moustache. Both were thick-necked, broad, their faces flushed from effort and anticipation.
Marge sniffed, "Can't teach old dogs new habits brother, I mean considering his sorts of people can you magine why it’s so hard for him to follow orders?” Vernon chuckled, pleased and followed her into the kitchen.
Harry took his usual place at the edge of the dining room, hands clasped loosely in front of him, eyes fixed on the cracked tiles beneath his feet. Marge talked. About dogs. About breeding. About discipline and how most problems could be solved if applied early enough.
Vernon laughed. Petunia nodded. Dudley didn’t look up from his plate.
The glasses on the sideboard trembled.
Just once.
Barely noticeable.
Vernon noticed.
“This is your only warning, boy,” he said quietly. “No freakishness in my house. You’re lucky your aunt and I were kind enough to let you attend that wretched school at all.”
“Yes, sir.”
Apparently satisfied, Vernon turned back to his sister. Marge smiled at Harry before cooing at Dudley, praising him for being so perfect.
Dinner ended at last. Petunia ushered everyone into the sitting room and handed Harry the dishes to clean. He did so silently, blocking out their voices as he worked. When he finished, he resumed his place, this time by the sitting room wall.
Hands loose. Shoulders still. Invisible.
Marge continued. About Harry. About his parents. About how marrying outside one's own kind always complicated something. She spoke of his parents with a thin smile, remarking how tragic it was that Lily had been led astray, how some bloodlines brought nothing but trouble with them no matter how hard one tried to ignore it. How generous Vernon and Petunia were for taking him in. How she would have left him on the street.
The television flickered.
A cup rattled.
Harry felt it before he saw it. The tightening in his chest, the sense of something slipping loose. He focused on his breathing. On not being noticed.
The room went still.
“I warned you,” Vernon sneered.
Harry opened his mouth to apologise. He didn’t know why he still tried. Habit, perhaps. Or hope, thin and stupid.
The world lurched. Glass shattered somewhere.
Someone shouted Vernon’s name, probably Aunt Petunia, sharp and urgent. Dudley made a frightened sound. Marge laughed.
Harry curled inward instinctively, protecting what he could.
Fear surged, cold and absolute when he felt Vernon's fingers curl around his neck. His magic rose like a wave, wild, panicked and desperate. It had done this before, back when he was small and alone and locked away. Trying to keep him warm. Trying to keep him alive.
The pressure built until it was unbearable.
Harry realised, distantly, that he didn’t want to die. He had never truly wanted that.
Harry Potter wanted to live.
The air cracked.
And then he was gone.