Chapter Text
30 – 31 July 1996
Harry Potter’s summer had been nothing short of a nightmare. Privet Drive had always felt like a prison, but this year it was worse. Far worse. The Dursleys had tightened their grip on him as though punishing him for simply existing. Ever since the ordert old them that his Godfather Sirius dies. Every morning began with a shouted command from Uncle Vernon and ended with Harry collapsing on his thin mattress in Dudley’s second bedroom. He didn’t see it as his.
They even made him burn all his things from Hogwarts in the fireplace. Every book and parchment, quill, the potions indedgres, he had to throw in the toilet to not cause an explosion. He could just with sheer luck hide his Broom from sirius, the Maurauder’s map and his invisibly cloak. Even his wand was now ash. At night, he often lay awake in the suffocating dark, listening to the creak of the house and the heavy snores of his relatives, wondering how he had ended up back here again.
He missed Hogwarts more than he could put into words. The castle had always been complicated — danger lurked around every corner, every year and he never quite felt safe — but at least there he wasn’t treated like garbage. At Hogwarts, he was somebody. Here, at Number Four, he was less than nothing.
That gnawing emptiness inside him had only grown since the night in the Department of Mysteries when Sirius had fallen through the veil. He tried not to think about it, but the grief lingered like a phantom ache, twisting tighter every time he remembered his godfather’s laughter. Whenever he let, himself imagine returning to the Gryffindor common room, to Hermione’s careful concern or Ron’s easy grin, the hollowness widened. He wasn’t sure if anywhere in the world could ever feel like home again.
Uncle Vernon seemed to sense that Harry’s spirit was already cracked and took great pleasure in shattering it further. Chores stretched from dawn until long after the streetlamps flickered on outside. Every time Harry lagged, Vernon’s booming voice would shake the walls. Sometimes, it wasn’t just shouting. And when he was at work it was Aunt Petunia.
Harry’s fingers still trembled whenever he remembered one particular evening.
Flashback
The sun had been sinking low, casting long orange streaks across the neat lawns of Privet Drive. Harry had been on his knees in Aunt Petunia’s flowerbed, hands caked with dirt as he yanked stubborn weeds from the soil. Sweat plastered his messy hair to his forehead. He was almost finished, just one more patch to clear, when the grumble of a car engine rolled into the driveway.
Panic jolted through him. Uncle Vernon’s company car came to a halt, the driver’s door slamming with a sound that made Harry flinch. He hadn’t finished the full list of chores.
“BOY!” Vernon’s voice thundered across the garden, thick with fury. “GET OVER HERE!”
Harry wiped his filthy hands against the oversized jeans from Dudley and forced himself to stand, his stomach knotting with dread. Maybe—just maybe—he could explain, tell him he was almost done—
The thought evaporated when Vernon’s meaty hand clamped onto his arm and dragged him across the yard.
“You useless, lazy, freakish brat!” Vernon’s face was blotchy red, his mustache twitching with rage. He hauled Harry against the brick wall of the house as soon they were behind the front door. “I give you one simple job, and you can’t even manage that!”
Harry tried to shrink back, but Vernon was already pulling his leather belt free with a sharp hiss.
The first strike landed across Harry’s ribs, stealing the breath from his lungs. Pain flared white-hot, but he clenched his teeth, refusing to cry out. Another lash burned across his back, then his arm. Each blow came heavier, until Harry could feel his skin swelling, bruising beneath the leather.
By the time Vernon finally stepped back, panting, Harry was doubled over, trembling and sore from head to toe.
“NOW GET IN THE KITCHEN AND MAKE DINNER!” Vernon barked, snapping the belt back into place around his waist.
“Yes, Uncle Vernon,” Harry rasped, voice barely audible. He staggered toward the kitchen, each step a battle not to collapse.
End of Flashback
Now, days later, the bruises still throbbed whenever he moved too quickly. He pulled his thin blanket tighter around himself, lying curled up on the thin mattress. His broken wristwatch glimmered faintly in the dark as he checked the time: only twenty minutes left until midnight. Twenty minutes until he turned sixteen.
Sixteen. Another year survived. Another year older, though it hardly felt like it. Another year miserable.
Harry counted the seconds in his head, each one dragging slower than the last.
The clock ticked down the final seconds. Ten… nine… eight… Harry lay rigid on the bed. every nerve screaming in anticipation. Seven… six… five… He tried to steady his breathing, careful not to make a sound. The Dursleys were asleep just outside his thin door; any scream, any flinch, any accidental creak of the floorboards could wake them—and he wasn’t sure he could survive another confrontation tonight.
Three… two… one…
At the strike of midnight, a sudden, searing pain ripped through him. It began at the base of his skull, a sharp, fiery pulse that shot down his spine. His muscles tensed involuntarily as a wave of agony swept across his shoulders and head. He bit his tongue so hard he tasted copper, refusing to cry out. If he screamed, the Dursleys would be up in an instant, their shouting, their fists, their belts… he couldn’t let that happen.
The pain was relentless, crawling like hot fire through every inch of him. Harry’s knuckles turned white as he pressed himself into the corner of the bed, trying to make himself as small as possible. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his chest heaving. His ears felt oddly sensitive, tingling in a way he didn’t recognize. Then, a strange pulling sensation along his lower back made him arch painfully—he felt something shifting, stretching. He turned from laying on the back to lay on his stomach.
Minutes passed—or maybe it was seconds; time had lost all meaning. Eventually, the strength drained from him, his legs buckling beneath him. Darkness pooled at the edges of his vision.
When Harry woke, his head throbbed and his back ached in dull, persistent pulses. He groaned softly and pushed himself up on trembling arms. The room looked unchanged—the shadows still clung to the corners, the bulb above flickered weakly—but something about the air felt… different. Clearer, somehow.
He blinked once, then again, and realized with mounting shock that he could see every speck of dust, every frayed thread on the cupboard wall, with startling clarity. He realized he didn’t have his glasses on. As he tried to grab them from his nose.
Harry tried to move, wincing as his muscles screamed in protest, and caught the first glimpse of change. His hair… it was no longer messy and plastered to his forehead. Blonde, Short and silky, the strands shimmered with vivid silver strands that caught the dim light. It kinda looks like the same blonde Malfoy has. And then he noticed the ears—pointed, like elf's ears. Just then he got a good look in the mirror and saw the huge silver wings. Wings like from an Angel. And he suddenly was very beautiful and attractive. Even his features changed. A smaller nose, fuller lips, higher cheekbones. And his eyes…they were not green anymore. They were grey.
“What the fuck?” He swore in some kind of panic
A cold shiver ran down his spine. He looked down, expecting his body to feel familiar, but something was subtly different. He was slightly taller, his clothes hanging a little tighter on him, the world slightly smaller around him.
Panic clawed at him. I can’t make a sound. I can’t wake them. I can’t… He forced himself to crawl silently to the door, pressing an ear against it to listen. Nothing. The Dursleys were still asleep, blissfully ignorant of the transformation that had claimed him in the quietest hours of the night.
He collapsed back onto the floor, clutching his sides as the last shreds of strength drained from him. The pain, though duller now, lingered like a shadow. Eventually, sleep claimed him again, gentle but insistent, and he surrendered to the black oblivion.
The next morning, sunlight filtered weakly through the curtains. Harry forced himself upright, groaning as his body protested every movement. He felt like the walls pressing in on him, and he remembered why he was awake: breakfast. He had to make it. For them.
Harry’s heart raced. For the first time in years, he felt different in a way he didn’t quite understand. The Dursleys would never forgive this. He had to move quickly, make breakfast, and stay silent, stay invisible, until he could figure out what had happened to him.
With shaking hands, he carried the plates into the kitchen. The owl from Hogwarts had not yet arrived, but he knew it would. He just hoped that whatever strange inheritance or destiny had been waiting for him could be reached before the Dursleys noticed anything unusual.