Chapter Text
Chapter 1: 2/8/1995
Harry Potter had never gone searching for trouble. It always seemed to find him. He hadn’t wanted to have to chase after Quirrel and save the philosopher’s stone. The burden had simply fallen to him and he, with a blatant disregard for his own wellbeing, had charged through that trapdoor. The same went for the chamber of secrets in his second year. In his ideal version of things, Lockhart would have been an authentic character and would have charged selflessly toward that basilisk and slain it, no skin off Harry’s back. In his third year, Dumbledore would have freed Sirius himself, Harry and Hermione recovering comfortably in the hospital wing perhaps with a chocolate frog to enjoy. When Harry had been selected for the Triwizard Tournament only last year, his professors would have seen how incredibly unprepared and innocent he was in the matter and withdrawn him entirely.
As it was, the adults in Harry’s life were constantly letting him down.
That is all he could think, once again, as he was shipped off to Privet Drive to rot in the summer following the Tournament. He couldn’t blame them, of course. He obviously wasn’t special enough for exceptions to be made. No matter how many times he saved them, how resilient and courageous and truly Gryffindor-esque he proved himself to be, he was locked away in Surrey for the entire summer. Left to his own devices, his own thoughts.
To Harry, time spent alone with his thoughts was not as good for him as everyone seemed to think it would be.
Not to mention that he must endure his thoughts and the matter of surviving his relatives.
Harry’s disgust with himself rose each time he thought about this. Had he not survived Voldemort? Had he not dueled him only weeks ago? Had he not gotten out unscathed while Cedric-
My fault.
Stop. Breathe. Redirect. Go.
He couldn’t help but think that perhaps bad things sought him out as some kind of cosmic retribution. The universe was exacting balance. He had done something awful, he had been awful, and this was the punishment he deserved. He deserved to be locked in his room for days on end. He deserved that pang in his stomach which reminded him how long it had been since he last ate. He deserved the bruises and scars, undiscriminating as to whether they were from Vernon’s rage or his other foes. What other fifteen year old boy had so many enemies? One would have to be a particularly nasty person to attract so much negative attention so fast.
Harry had spent the summer dwelling on these very things, waking from nightmares each night, dripping in sweat. It seemed he had never really left that graveyard, such did it haunt him so persistently and vindictively. He wondered if he would forever be forced to replay that scramble for his wand, his actions too slow, Cedric’s confusion written across his lifeless body. Voldemort rising from the cauldron, bringing with him unimaginable pain. Cedric’s spirit, begging Harry to bring his body back to his father.
‘Take my body back, will you? Take my body back to my parents’
My fault. My fault. All my fault.
Vernon had not taken too kindly to these disturbances, maintaining the firm belief that the bad blood must be beaten out of the boy.
Trapped in this cruel cycle of summer, Harry’s nights were restless and his days arduous, filled with chores in the blistering sun of Britain’s heatwave. His body knew the routine, knew how to respond with a balance of respect and lack of motion so as to avoid his uncle or aunt’s fury. He worked mechanically, his mind often wandering to Hogwarts and his friends.
This direction, too, brought him little comfort as he felt more alone than ever that summer. Perhaps, more so than the summer before his second year. While he was still receiving letters from his friends, they were impersonal and uninformative despite his persistent questioning. He had gathered that Ron and Hermione were together and couldn’t help his stomach twisting in jealousy as he imagined what fun they were having while he weeded the garden, scolded over his shoulder by a petulant Petunia.
Hogwarts, at least, remained his sanctum. A place in his mind to which he could retreat and focus on as he was preyed on by Dudley and his gang or subject to his uncle and aunt’s constant and unequivocal anger.
That was to say, until he was expelled.
Harry sat at the kitchen counter, his eyes fixed on the letter which had fallen to the floor in his shock.
Expelled. I was just expelled.
The events around him seemed of no consequence, not Dudley retching into a bucket, not Vernon’s sharp bark of laughter or Petunia’s gasp. Harry was never going home.
Why would they want you back? You hurt people. You killed Cedric.
As the world, seemingly blurred though Harry was wearing his glasses, was muffled, his senses zeroed in on the unusual prickle of tears behind his eyes and the sizable lump forming in his throat. He swallowed with difficulty, knowing where tears usually got him in this house. Harry was not one to cry.
I just lost everything.
Everything slammed into him at full force instantaneously and he looked up to see his uncle mid sentence, taking a slow step towards him.
“-ruddy time! You hear that, Petunia? He’s out! The madhouse has chucked him out!” Uncle Vernon beamed, maddening and sickening joy falling across his face. “No more damned owls,” he took a step towards Harry with each sentence, “No more freaks bursting through our door,”
Harry’s heart rate picked up as he recognised the vein throbbing in Vernon’s forehead and his overly red face. He slowly rose to his feet from the stool he had been sitting on and took a slow step back as Uncle Vernon continued his advance.
“No more reckless magic tricks. And certainly,” he came to a halt directly ahead of Harry whose back now rested against the wall of the living room, “No more tolerating this infringement on our lives,”
Vernon’s breath was foul on Harry’s cheek, but he knew better than to recoil. Instead, he stood very still, as he did with the blinded basilisk and almost hoping Vernon would not sense him and move away. His eyes darted behind his uncle surveying the scene. As he caught sight of the nauseous looking Dudley and Aunt Petunia fussing over him, he knew instantly he was well and truly done for.
“There’s no damn warlocks or magicians to save you now boy. They’ve kicked you out. They don’t want a freak like you just like they didn’t want freaks like your parents. And quite right they were,”
Harry instantly felt his anger surge as his parents were made. Perhaps it was all his emotions bubbling up from the day, perhaps from the whole summer his confusion, anger, betrayal, desperation, hurt. He suddenly remembered his Gryffindor pride and he loathed the man standing in front of him.
“Don’t talk about my parents,” Harry seethed, straightening his back to be level with his uncle. He did not quite reach Vernon’s height due to his small, thin build for a boy his age, so he still had to look up.
“What was that boy,” Vernon shouted, his fists visibly clenching as his face grew redder and he pressed Harry further into the wall by sheer proximity. Harry instantly felt his nerve quail and shame bubbled up inside of him as he thought of his parents' disappointed faces.
They made the ultimate sacrifice and you are throwing it away.
What a waste of a life.
At that instant, another owl flew arduously into the room, dropping a letter on Harry’s head before promptly dropping to the floor. Vernon snatched it before Harry could read it and tore it to shreds before Harry’s eyes, causing his heart to skip a beat.
What did it matter anyway, he was going to be shunned from the wizarding world. With his luck, it would probably be a note for his execution.
“THAT DOES IT!” Vernon roared, his fist, stuffed with scraps of the letter, colliding suddenly with the wall beside Harry’s head, “I’M DONE WITH YOU BOY,”
Before Harry could dart away he was grabbed by the scruff of the neck and thrown harshly against the kitchen counter, the corner catching his stomach and winding him slightly. He scrambled to turn around, catching a glimpse of a roaring Vernon storming towards him and hardly had enough time to brace himself before a wailing fist slammed into his jaw.
Harry immediately hunched over, groaning and clutching his face, but the back of his shirt was caught by Vernon, who hauled him back up.
Usually, Vernon avoided areas which might show and alert his ‘freak’ friends, but now it appeared he had been given free reign to let out his anger on the boy.
Harry saw out the corner of his haze vision, Petunia hurrying Dudley from the room. He was left alone with Vernon.
He turned his head just in time to see another punch being aimed at him, this one striking the side of his temple and sending him crumpling to the floor.
“Not so smart are we now, boy? Not so quick to defend yourself. You can dress yourself up with your fancy tricks and turns and jiggery pockeries, boy, but you are nothing but a worthless, scum, good-for-nothing freak, and your damn magic friends know it,”
This comment was accompanied by a harsh kick to Harry’s back. He managed to curl himself into a ball on the floor, feeling the pain throbbing through his body and wishing more than anything that that letter had been for his execution and ministry officials would charge through the door any minute and send a flash of green light his way.
He would feel like he was floating away. He would leave Vernon and Petunia and Dudley and the whole damn world which seemed intent on hating him ever since the tournament. He would leave them far behind.
But no. That, of course, was too easy. The adults in his life were always failing Harry Potter.
You deserve it.
He lay on the carpet, watching sorrowfully as his blood dripped from his bitten lip onto the floor, knowing it would stain and inevitably lead to more hatred directed towards him. It was clear at that moment he didn’t have a friend in the world.
He was nearing passing out, his vision dropping in and out, swaying dramatically this way and that as Vernon reached down and grabbed him by his hair, hauling him to his feet with a pained shout from Harry. He found himself slammed against the wall, staring directly into Vernon’s beady eyes, blood shot and triumphant, drinking in Harry’s shattered and defeated appearance.
Harry Potter had survived Lord Voldemort four times, and yet would die at the hands of his morbidly obese uncle.
He cast his eyes down, unable to maintain eye contact, leading to a snort from Vernon.
“I hope you are grateful, boy. We have wasted a lot of effort on a troublemaker like you,”
He paused, perhaps waiting for a reply from Harry, who felt that opening his mouth and talking was near impossible. He felt blood trickling down his chin and was sure there was some internal damage, combined with his cut lip from where he had bitten down too hard.
“Well?” Vernon barked, his hand reaching up to grip Harry’s throat, “Are you going to thank us, freak?”
Harry gagged as his uncle squeezed his throat, restricting his already laboured breath, his eyes bulging and his hands darting up to grip Vernon’s unrelenting hand.
“Thanks…” Harry choked, coughing up more blood with his words. Vernon tightened his grip for a final few moments, in which Harry’s vision blurred further and began to flicker into darkness. Then, he let go.
He was muttering to himself as he left, though the words didn’t reach Harry, who had instantly fallen to the ground. The carpet felt strange against his raw, tender skin. It was comforting, and a strange warm sensation passed over him despite the persistent tremor across his body.
How pathetic, the boy who lived, curled on the ground of his own house, choking on his own blood. He’s getting what he deserves, everyone would say if they saw. Why else would he be sent back to this treatment every year? Dumbledore was surely punishing him for all the upheaval and turbulence he had caused. It was his fault Voldemort had returned. His fault Cedric was dead.
My fault, my fault, my fault.
Harry welcomed the familiar darkness as his mind shut down and he descended into unconsciousness.
Pathetic.