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Chapter Text

Today was the third time in the past week Harry woke up extremely uncomfortable. To the point that he was restless with fatigue as well as so tired he had fallen over trying to get out of bed. 

He has spent hours of the days since his return from Hogwarts in the Dursleys' garden, the unreasonably hot sun bearing down on him, Vernon and Dudley growling down on him, dehydrated, dizzy and nauseous and wondering what he had done to deserve this. Weights pressed against his eyelids, skin burning, eyes stinging painfully as they watered.

'It has to be the heat,' he thought, laying there, in his aunt’s pristine lawn at No.4 Privet Drive.

It's been two weeks since the end of the Triwizard Tournament. Two weeks since the Graveyard. Two weeks since Cedric Diggory was killed and left Harry drowning in the wake of his death and the Daily Prophet seemed to be too busy slandering Dumbledore and questioning Harry's sanity to be reporting about Cedric's murder and Voldemort's return.

He wanted to leave. He could hardly breathe without feeling the weight of an entire hippogriff at his chest. He ached to feel freedom for even a moment, to grab his Firebolt, strap his trunk to it and fly away but a stunt like that would prove him just the attention seeker the Prophet was making him out to be.

He had tried to console himself. There was nothing much he could do, as so far, the editor or whoever was in-charge of incoming owls at the Daily Prophet has been entirely ignoring Harry's account of that day. Seemingly content in continuing to mud sling his name – and make heavy handed comments about his mental stability. 

The heat remained unbearable even as the afternoon sun set. Every inch of Harry's body was coated in sweat. His head hurting something awful. The neighbours besides them in Number-who-cares turn their sprinklers on and Harry wrenches his eyes open and watched the sunlight reflect off of the gleaming water droplets. The water pools and then flows into rivulets towards the flowerbeds in Mr. and Mrs. Whoever's garden – looking like a cascade of shimmering pieces of a shattered mirror, reflecting a sky so blue and just as broken as it's observer. 

Harry sighed, launching into another violent coughing fit and cringed at the drops of blood that ended up on his baggy and faded T-shirt. Finally, it was Aunt Petunia's pinched face and harsh glare peering down on him from the drawing room window that sent Harry scrambling up to Dudley's second bedroom (never his, even after all these years) ignoring her mutterings about how freak-like it was of Harry to be getting a cold in summer and how she would be damned if she let any of them catch it. 

He scoured the Daily Prophet for the third time that day – hoping he had missed the part announcing the Dark Lord's return.

Harry was quickly beginning to fear that the Ministry will not acknowledge Voldemort's return until the Dark Mark starts hanging over the houses of muggle-borns and blood traitors alike and even then, they might still blame Death Eaters instead. He can –when thought with a clear head– acknowledge that Fudge and his lackeys were terrified at the possibility of a second war that will inevitably follow the Dark Wizard's return. Harry himself spent the days in fear for his life and the Dursleys' no matter how much he despised them.  It's not like there was anyone here to protect them. 

He sighed and decided he could do something else than drown in misery. Ron's letter had arrived.

But his head still felt heavy, eyelids dropping. He does not want to sleep. Does not want to watch Cedric's body become Ron's or Hermione's as it often does before waking up, shaking from the memory of Voldemort's Crucio. Hedwig hooted in concern, flying from her perch to look over at him but his vision became nothing but white spots before he could reassure her. 

Harry woke almost a day and half later, on the floor Dudley had dragged him to by a fistful of hair before Aunt Petunia had dumped a pitcher of water over his head.

Harry hated his relatives more than he hated anyone 

He hates being ill even more. 

Time passes, he replies to his friends, to Sirius. Nearly screams, drowning in anger and frustration. Ron and Hermione were together, most probably at the Burrow, withholding whatever it is they know. He could understand the concern with owls but they could have used muggle means. Could have used the telephone, could have come to visit just once. He certainly would have been by their side if they had been the ones to get kidnapped, forced to participate in a dark ritual, tortured and then made to fight their parents’ murderer. 

At some point, he writes begging to know when he could see them. He asks Sirius.

He'd already known the answer. 

He knew what was being insinuated. A lifetime spent with the Dursleys meant Harry was rather well-versed in recognizing punishment for what it was in its rawest form. Everybody knew how deeply his relatives despised him and how deeply he loathed them for it in return and yet here he was. But can he blame them? Surely they expect Harry to understand that it was his fault that Voldemort was back. His blood that helped resurrect the Dark Wizard back into a corporeal form. It was Harry who had made Cedric touch that portkey. This punishment was no less than what he deserved for-

''Kill the spare.'' 

A flash. Green light. 

Cedric Diggory, a beloved boy. 

Lifeless body, vacant eyes. 

An accusing glare. 

''CEDRIC!....Cedric! No... Please! Don't kill Cedric...Ced-''

He wakes up screaming. 

Harry's mysterious illness haunted him. His 'family' remained unconcerned. What was there to be concerned about? If the situation was that dire indeed, then his kind should have already taken the boy off their backs.

Rolling over to his side, he grumpily keeps scanning the Prophet word to word, front to back and lamenting over how much they screwed him over and wondering if cynics from the Daily Prophet were correct in saying that he'd made it all up. That it wasn't real. The stacks of the newspaper in his room taunted him, showing him a reality that wasn't his but apparent to everybody else. 

Ron and Hermione continued to torment him as well. With tantalizing hints that he has now taken to overlook, which just meant he was avoiding answering their owls. 

Sirius wrote of nothing much except telling him to heed caution and Harry had stopped pestering him too. He did wonder whether the wizard who illegally became an animagus at fifteen, served twelve years in Azkaban for a murder he did not commit, escaped in an attempt to commit the murder he had been convicted for in the first place and then went on the run with a stolen hippogriff with the help of two time-travelling teenagers retained the right to tell him to not do anything rash, to keep his nose clean. It was galling and particularly irrelevant given he had done nothing to warrant such a strict warning from once again Sirius of all people.

Nevertheless, Harry had done so far, as Sirius advised. 

''I had a family, y'know,'' Cedric says to him once, cold and accusing, donned in his tournament attire, covered in graveyard dirt and the stench of death.

''How did you do it, Potter? I could've never just stood and watch someone be killed.''  he took a step forward. ''How could you have done nothing? How could you just let me die? I was good, I was kind and I was loved. How could you do this to my family?''

His face contorted into an expression Harry could not remember ever seeing on him before. “I was NOT a spare! It was you who was meant to die, not me! I had a mother, a father, girlfriend and friends.... who do you have? What do you have? Why do you get to live?”

''I never meant for you to die!'' Harry pleaded. ''I swear! If I had known the cup was a portkey -I would have never offered it to you- Please... I'm sorry.'' An anguished cry left Cedric as his body went slack.

''No!...no..no..no-''

''Crucio',' said Voldemort stepping on Cedric's body.

The impact of it hit him full force, the pain so terrible that he prefered death. 

Upon his lumpy mattress, he remained unmoving in pain, form twitching, watching the moonlight cast a soft glow across the room. Sweat poured down his forehead and he groaned at the ache that spread across his chest at every small intake of air, as if his lungs were on fire and doused in ice at the same time. He drapes his arm over his waist, absentmindedly pressing against the skin of his protruding ribs and chest, hoping to relieve some sort of pressure.

Slowly, he tried to push himself up using his arms, clenching his teeth as the tiniest bit of shifting caused stabbing pains through his body. The flat pillow he had shoved beneath his back for the ache falling to the floor as he painfully pulled himself up and fumbled in the dark for his glasses, desperately trying to smother a hacking caugh as his useless lungs contracted horribly deep within his chest.

He gasped as another fit came upon him, scratching his incredibly dry throat raw. 
Listening carefully, he placed a hand over his mouth in an attemt to control his erratic breathing while making sure his aunt or uncle would not be banging down the door any second. Harry got to his feet shakily and padded slowly out of his room to the bathroom having no desire to wake the sleeping occupants of the house.

He had to hold himself steady against the doorframe for five minutes to prevent himself collapsing. 

The trouble was, that whatever illness bothered him, it had gotten progressively worse as the days passed, creeping up on his consciousness and Harry was not entirely sure how long he could go on like this. He can count on one hand the number of times he had received medical assistance around the Dursleys' as a child and even that was generous and far much less than the number of times he had actually required medical treatment. He had always done better dealing with these things alone. Neglectful as they were- his aunt and uncle had never been much help even when they acknowledged he needed it. Even the glasses he wore had been dug up by Aunt Petunia for free from the bin at the clinic

He straightened up and dragged himself into the bathroom. Sighing, he splashed his burning and clammy skin with cold water, eyes rising to the reflection in the mirror. 

He was met with a sight that made his breath hitch and he stepped back from the mirror in repulsion. 

The face staring back at him was almost unrecognizable. Emaciated, drawn, cheeks hollowed and drained of all signs of health. Dark circles beneath his eyes. His skin looked like it was pulsing from the inside, as if it was going to shed. A greenish tint about it. His hair, matted and sweaty, clung to his forehead, slightly parted in the middle making that damned lightning bolt scar visible.To top all that, whispery strands of pale, greying hair curled right above it, making the whole look of him just slightly unhinged.

Harry reached up and plucked them straight out. 

He sneezed and watched as sparks flew out of his nose. 

His blood ran cold. 

Chapter Text

He sneezed and watched as sparks flew out of his nose. 

His blood ran cold. 

Aunt Petunia shrieked and the next thing he knew, he was lying on the ground.  

She had slapped him so hard his ears rang.

The tiled kitchen floor was very cold. 

''BOY!'' She yelled before lowering her voice to a whisper. ''No magic! Get out. Get out of my sight!''

Harry scrambled up the stairs. 

It hadn't been intentional. The sparks. 

Something was terribly wrong. 

There isn't a part of him that wants to bother the Weasleys or even Sirius, who is in no position to help him regardless. Childhood experience had taught him suffering silently was better than asking the Dursleys for help. Uncle Vernon will kill him if he asks to be taken to St.Mungo's and Petunia makes it clear to not ask them for help anyway. If he could make it far away to call on the night bus safely, that could work but the idea of showing up in public, knowing what the Prophet is saying about him is harrowing. He scours his brain hoping for an idea when a loud crack had him jumping. 

Dobby the house elf had chosen his timing perfectly it seems.              

''Dobby! What are you doing here?'' 
 

"Dobby was just popping by to check on you, sir." Dobby gave him a sheepish, wobbly smile. "Dobby was worried about Harry Potter. Dobby reading the newspaper sir but he is not believing the lies."

"Oh," Harry said, feeling very touched. "Thank you Dobby. I appreciate it."

"So, is Harry Potter sir being alright? Dobby would like to know if there's anything he can do for Harry Potter — Winky too, sir. She's feeling guilty and wanting to help but she be having too much butterbeer to be useful."

"No, it's alright—" Harry pressed his lips together to stop his laugh and then regretted it immediately. He coughed into a crumpled tissue. 

Dobby's eyes went wide. Immediately he snapped his fingers and multiple cotton napkins appeared at his side. Harry startled. 

''Dobby! You can't do magic, they'll trace it-''

''House Elf magic is untraceable sir,''

''What!?'' Harry paused. ''but I got a warning when you did that levitation charm-''

''Dobby was being bad, sir. He copied Harry Potter to make it like he did magic!'' Dobby wailed.

''Dobby is so sorry, sir.''

Harry sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose,

''It's alright Dobby. I forgave you, remember?''

He was suddenly grateful that Dudley had gone out and about with his gang, smoking and vandalizing and what not and Aunt Petunia was out shopping.

"In fact— I believe there is something you can help me with."

He penned a note for his aunt and then they were off. 

In retrospect, maybe Harry should have asked Dobby what apparating actually felt like because it was just as bad as a portkey. But atleast in St. Mungo's no one made a fuss about him being there. Nothing more than quick glances and narrowed eyes. They were very professional and he quite liked that. Dobby told him to call for him, when he was done and left very before Harry could say anything else. It took him more than thirty minutes to fill out the forms. Mostly, because his hands were shaking so much, he could barely write and at some point the witch waiting for his documents took pity on him and filled it for him. The questions ranged from his symptoms to more personal ones.

No, he does not have a guardian with him. 

Yes, he did acquire medical help recently for injuries.

Yes, he did undergo a ritual recently, forced participation in a Dark Ritual.

No he has not been confunded. 

Yes, he was recently cursed.

Harry cannot for the life of him recall what they did. He was introduced to a Healer specializing in the Wizarding diseases except after doing a scan, he called on the Healer specializing in injuries relating to curses and dark magic, who in turn called on an army of nurses and asked them to bring twelve different kind of potions and made Harry drink them after more magical scans. 

''Dragon Pox?'' asked Harry in disbelief. ''I have Dragon Pox?'' 

Healer Rusleen nodded, Harry felt as though this was meant to be a grave matter. 

It's alright. 

There's a cure. Dragon Pox has a cure. He'll be fine. 

''You're a lucky individual, Mr.Potter,'' he said. ''Your body combats the virus well. Despite the family history-''

Harry's breath fell short. 

''That's not a lot to be concerned about,'' said Healer Rusleen immediately. ''They were an elderly couple. You are young and your body fights the virus considerably well, despite no prior doses having been admistrated to you before. However, I cannot say how that is possible-''

What elderly couple? Harry wanted to ask but he doubted it was something the Healer would indulge. He was simply a healer, after all.

''Phoenix tears,'' said Harry interrupting him. ''I have had injuries healed with Phoenix tears. Could that have affected it?''

The healer looked surprised for a moment before nodding and sighing in relief. 

''The phoenix tears in your blood stream might be the only reason why the typical symptoms haven't manifested. There's a good chance they might not. It supresses the effects of the virus in your body...''

He went on explaining what could be happening. Harry isn't contagious. So, there's no reason for him to be quarantined indefinately. 

''There are some residual signs of a ritual and I do suspect it is the reason for the virus being able to affect you despite the phoenix tears. I believe you were also correct about the...torture curse, your body does bear the impact of it and there is nerve damage.... If I may ask, do you recall what kind type of treatment you received?''

He paused, waiting for an answer. Harry didn't have one. 

''I...didn't?'' 

''I'm sorry?''

''I don't recall any particular treatment, sir.''  He said more surely.

''No painkillers? Neural Regeneration Draughts? I don't think Hogwarts has them in store...'' he turned towards one of the medi-nurses, who spoke into his year whatever suitable explanation. 

''Just....dreamless sleep.'' 

The Healer cleared his throat. 

''Mr. Potter, I am afraid the nerve damage is irreversible-'' His heart dropped. Permanent irreversible damage? 

''-but it should not cause any problems long term, I will, however, recommend you an accessible treatment plan...,'' He went on to further explain why, which went in one ear and out the other for Harry. No wonder they were fretting over the lack of an adult with him.

''It will take a while to recover from but that is about it. You only get Dragon Pox once before your body builds resistance against it, you will be immune to it going forward.'' 

There was a dark-skinned witch at the corner of the room fiercely scribbling on some parchment but otherwise completely ignoring them other than to occasionally gauge their faces. Harry wondered what that was about. 

''Good, that's good, er...so, there is no lasting damage? How long will it take for the fever to go away?'' 

''It will truly depend upon your own immune system and I recommend you continue to take the prescribed potions until then. They ensure your body continues to fight the infection. I will be adding nutrition and ration potions in your prescription as well, you might be unable to consume much solid food but these will ensure your body does not lack for necessary nutrients.'' 

''Okay.'' Harry said, feeling far too relieved after drinking ten potions, one of which he assumes is a calming draught.

(His heart rate had spiked at some point, a kind nurse had told him it was nothing to worry about and given him a goblet filled with a shimmering blue liquid and told him to drink it before he had a panic attack and then spend fifteen minutes explaining to him how to recognize a panic or anxiety attack and taught him some basic breathing exercises to remain calm, while the others were busy pricking and prodding him. Harry would later lie awake in the dark after nightmares and be very grateful about it.)

''It will be best for you to spend a few nights in observation,'' says the Healer. ''Is there someone you'd like to inform? Someone you would like for to be here?'' 

Harry shook his head. 

Healer Rusleen gives him a pitying look. 
The nurses were quite talkative and interested in Harry's life and Harry suspected it were the potions that left him loose enough that he ended up entertaining their musings. They talked some more and the Healer wrote down the instructions and handed them over. His head spun from just seeing it, when and where and how to take the potions, what to eat and what to avoid, no physical activities.....

Lying on his own hospital bed, Harry wondered for a moment if Moody -the real Alastor Moody- was in the hospital in this very moment. He had certainly looked like he would be. Harry can recall Dumbledore's memories of the Death Eater trial he saw last year and suddenly, he was feeling the horrid pain of the cruciatus curse, was recalling Neville and his parents, and has a sudden realization that this is where they live now - tortured to insanity by death eaters. 

Impulsively, Harry wrote to Gringotts to get sent over some thousand Galleons from his vault. 

His 'Triwizard Tournament' money.

Nevermind he'd already given that to the twins.

''For the Death Eater victims,'' Harry said akwardly rocking back and forth on his heels before handing over the heavy money bag at the Donation Counter making the witch behind it coo, a hand over her heart.

Harry doesn't mind having his vault a thousand galleon lighter.

He had more than enough money to give here. He hadn't wanted to win the tournament, hadn't even wanted to participate. What a smack in the face would it be? If he were to donate it all to Death Eater victims, to orphans, to people like him? He certainly had the resources for it. 

Ron would say he was wasting money but it was Harry's money and Harry would rather give it away than waste it on candy. 

Besides, his family vault earned a sum off of the royalties from Sleakyzys anyway. It was his Grandfather -Fleamont Potter- who invented the most famous hair and scalp treatment in England. Not only that but his family's fortune had been built on trade and the other potions that they created like Pepper-up and Skele-Gro and so many more. He could live off it for entire lifetimes. 

(He doesn't dwell on the shame he felt upon realising he had not known this. Nor had he known they had passed due to Dragon Pox weeks before his first birthday. He had never bothered to learn anything about his grandparents at all and they had to have met him. In the short time they had been alive between his birth and their death. They had to have met the only grandchild that will come from their only son. Had to have loved him and oh, gods, it hurts. It hurts to know so well how his father must have felt. It hurts to have this be something in common between them. To have to know what it is like to be left orphaned.) 

Dobby apparates them back to Privet Drive a few days later and Harry only had enough strength in him to remember to crack his trunk open and pull out a decent pair of socks to gift to Dobby.

The Elf weeps happily but vehemently turns down the Galleon Harry tries to push into his hand. He is horrified when Dobby informs him that he will be visiting him every single day to make sure Harry takes his Potions and rests in a no-nonsense tone that Harry never expected from him. He even goes as far as to instruct Hedwig to take care of him and the snowy owl hoots her agreement and looks at Harry as if daring him to say otherwise. 

He had been instructed to keep rubbing balms and burn creams all over his body to soothe the nasty pustules. The healer had promised they wouldn't leave behind any marks if Harry religiously coats them with the salve and takes ice baths. It was hard to convince Aunt Petunia that he wasn't contagious. He had already lied to her when he'd told her he only had the wizard's flu. Normal wizarding viral. And that they wouldn't catch it. They could catch it. The symptoms just wouldn't manifest similarly.

Harry insisted that Dobby not waste his 'vacation days' fussing over him, which is why they only had tea together every day but Dobby is a free elf and not beholden to do anything he says which is why Harry doesn't get angry when he does notice the softer cracks of apparition at nights. His sweat soaked clothes ending up in a pile at the corner every single day, freshly laundered and Harry usually wakes up to a glass of chilled water and his potions lined in a neatly order for the entire day by his bedside. Harry still hadn't told anyone about his condition. Not that he could, since he was sleeping all the time. 

They sent letters and Harry was furious that they were together and 'keeping busy' cleaning. Sirius understood Harry's frustration but could do nothing.

Anger had coursed through him like hell-fire when he realized it was absolutely possible that not only were his friends together but they were also getting to see Sirius. Which made sense.

If the Weasley's were helping Dumbledore and whatever 'old crowd' they'd been meaning to collect to fight Voldemort.

Harry is embarrased to have only realized this when Hermione off-handedly mentions Crookshanks being very attached to Sirius and could not think of any other reason why they'd even be getting the chance to see each other otherwise. Even if Sirius wasn't living at the Burrow, they still got to see him. 

It's unfair they get to spend time with him, get to be around him and Harry did not. Sirius was his godfather. Ron and Hermione already have families, its Harry who doesn't!

There is a questioning hoot, and Harry looks over at Hedwig —precious, precious, precious, sweet owl— watching him from her perch on the window and he sees her, he almost starts to cry. He doesn't even know why but when she sweeps his head under her wing he let's her and let's the tears fall. 

Chapter Text

Ron and Hermione and Sirius might not indulge him for whatever reason of their own but Harry is his own form of cruel.

Rude and mean and petty. 

So he hides. He hides, hides, hides. Lies. Knowing it'll hurt them. Knowing they'll be sad and sorry— all apologies and regret. But he shouldn't have to tell them because they should be with him. They should know. 

They might have their reasons but Harry has his own stubborn streak. Unbreakable and kilometers wide. 

Dear Ron and Hermione,
          Are you living with Sirius? He's been around, isn't he? Why? Why do I have to be stuck here? Tell me what's happening. Do not lie to me. 

The truck passes by right across from him everyday, twice a day. Harry looks at the truck that passes by right across from him everyday twice a day. 

Like a clock. That ticks,

ticks,

ticks.

Harry is dead,

dead,

dead.

But then again, he's not. 

It's Cedric. Cedric's dead, dead, dead. Like Mum. Who's also dead, dead, dead. Dad too.

Dead,

Dead,

Dead.

Everyone's dead. 

Voldemort's not. He's the only one who lives. Even when he's dead. 

They lied to him. He's not the boy-who-lived. He's dead. Voldemort's not. Harry's not the boy who doesn't die and Voldemort's the one who's alive. And Harry knows it's the truth. Because Voldemort trusts Harry. He's the one person in this world who doesn't lie to him. Lord Voldemort doesn't give Harry false platitudes. He doesn't give him hope, doesn't offer a next time. He tries his best when Harry's right in front of him. The foolish madman. He includes him in his shit. Indulges him with explanations. He likes to monolouge, the fucking lunatic. That's how Harry makes sure everyone's afraid too. Because Voldemort makes sure he tells Harry what he's going to do. He even warns him months ahead of time that he's upto something. It's not his fault Harry's sound judgement looks like stupidity to others. Not his fault that only Harry can make sense of his insanity. 

Voldemort's stuck by him through all the bad.

Making everyone dead. 

It's nice. Having something that he knows will never change. Reliable. Run like hell. 

Harry's a wizard.His clock doesn't tick, tick, tick. It spins, spins, spins.

No. Clocks don't spin. It turns,

turns,

turns.

Three turns, three hours. That's all it takes to save a few. 

But Harry doesn't have a clock. Vernon's fifteen year old wristwatch hasn't worked for more than fifteen months. Life stopped for Harry when he was fifteen months.

Hermione had the clock. But what's the point?

He's been dead for nearly fourteen years. 

It would have taken barely one spin but they just couldn't find the time. 

The truck passes by right across from him everyday twice a day. Harry walks to the truck that passes by right across from him everyday twice a day.

The truck rolls over the bones of his back, neck and head. His spine shatters. His vertebrae breaks, his brains oozes out. Thousand flashes shine in his eyes. Like a patronus ever so bright. The silver mist of it pours into his eyes and clouds his vision with a shimmery, dazzling light.

The world tilts. The sky shatters. The sun burns out, the moon cracks. It's better this way. Light doesn't reach him in the dog days anyway. He isn't very fond of them. 

Harry mourns the night sky and misses the stars. He loved the flight. When did he fly?

He did fly, right? 

He throws up. He blacks out. He's bed bound. 
This happens all the time. Nothing to see here. It's but an ordinary day.

Something broke inside him since the graveyard sealed away his life. He didn't cry, didn't yell or fight, he went along with the pain. It felt like being underwater or watching a telly show from the cupboard, looking at his life from behind a screen very far away.

Time slipped away from his grip like mollases, one day merging into another until weeks had passed. Words, phrases and meanings swirled around in his head but remained disconnected from him.

His body was responding but it felt out of control at the same time. He let it drag him. Gave them what they want from him. Accepted his punishment because Voldemort was back, Cedric was dead and he was bad, bad, and he deserves it even when he's cold and everything hurts. Even though he's just hungry. 

Dear Ron and Hermione, 
        What's going on? Why can't I leave? My Uncle and Aunt don't want me here, you know they hate my guts. I don't want to live here.  Please, Please, let me

 Why's Sirius at the Burrow?

What are you two really doing? Why's everything hush-hush? You're lying to me, aren't you, you useless fuckers? So I wouldn't make fun of you for lazing around? I wouldn't, really, I wouldn't. Its the summer hols, right? You get to be lazy. Homework can wait till the first of september (I know you don't care Ron but yes Hermione, I'm almost done. There's nothing else to do) Its not like I have anybody here who gives a shit.) By the way, can you please send me some food? It doesn't have to be a lot. Just a little something to keep me alive until the end of summer.  Help me tide over

Are you at least playing Quidditch? How's the sky?

He doesn’t want to think about it. He doesn’t want to think at all anymore. What he wants is to slam his head against the wall and drive out all the terrible thoughts.

Maybe if he does it hard enough then the piercing migraines will go away. 

Harry's recovery is excruciatingly slow. He has fever and sneezes sparks as if he were a Zonko firecracker. His coughing fits got better if he drank his Pepper-up but the healer had said to not do that very often since it may decrease the effectiveness of the other potions.

At least there wasn't any more vomiting. 

The lotions worked their wonder at healing his skin. The ugly pustules had dried down. His skin only had a tinge of green in it. Enough for him to look like he was normally ill, not magically. Not that it deterred his uncle and aunt from their behaviour.

His vision goes black around the edges. He can't struggle. Can't fight. 

Vernon strangled him. For coughing up a flame and setting the tablecloth on fire. Harry hadn't managed to get away in time to prevent the imprints of Vernon's thick, grubby fingers on his neck. 

Uncle Vernon releases him when something electric crackles past him. Harry sucks in air through his poor, abused throat. He doesn't want to, but he knows he'll have nightmares about this for weeks. 

He ignores Vernon muttering invectives, goes up to his room, pulls his knees to his chest and curls around himself. He doesn't cry. Vernon wasn't worth it.

Chapter Text

''Hey, Big D.''

Dudley startled and looked back. ''Oh, it's you.''

''What an astute observation. Your parents are getting their money's worth at Smeltings then?''

''Shut it or I'll call Dad.''

''Aw,'' mocked Harry with a pout. ''You'd do that to me, cous? And here, I was. Thinking all high and mighty of your Lord and Majesty, The Big D.''

''I said, SHUT IT!''

''Or what? You'll beat me up like you did to that ten year old Mark Evans?''

''He was asking for it,'' his cousin snarled. 

Harry tsked.

''Dear Diddykins Dinky Diddydums Popkin, the kid's ten. What could he've done?''

The effort to keep himself from beating Harry into a pulp seemed to be demanding all of Dudley's self-control. 

''He cheeked me.''

"Yeah?''

''Yeah.''

''Why? Did he tell you you're like a pig who's been taught to walk on his hindlimbs? Cause' that's not cheek, dudders, that's the truth.'' 

The punch he got in his stomach was worth seeing the look on Dudley's face. 

''Don't hit the kids,'' he wheezed painfully. ''Or you'll get in trouble.''

''No I won't.''

Harry shrugged, still cluthing his bruised abdomen. ''Believe what you will.''

''Stop bothering me!''

''Oi! Bothering you, am I?''

''Yes,'' grunted Dudley, making a snorting noise like the piggy he is. ''What do you want?'' 

Harry grinned and handed his cousin a few muggle notes and asked him to get him a pack of colored pens and a thick journal. Dudley walked off and emerged back from his own room with the demanded stationary. All new. Harry might have had to threaten to tell his Aunt and Uncle about the smoking, drinking and general chaos Dudley and his gang unleashed around the neighbourhood but that was between them and it was still the kindest his cousin had been to him since they were five and he was being asked to push Dudley on the swing. Not that it lasted, since Dudley took it upon himself to make fun of his night terrors. Of Cedric's Death. And for calling out for his mum and dad. 

Harry winced internally. Calling out for his dead parents to come and save him. He knows how mental it sounds. Dudley didn't know what had happened. And it's not like his parents had lingered around.

They're supposed to be in their next great adventure or whatever Dumbledore says.

Dobby observes Harry stare at a magazine once, staring longingly at a very cool looking vest, decides and declares they absolutely needed to make it.

Which wasn't a terrible idea. And Harry had really wanted that vest. And he knew how to sew. 
The only thing complicated about it was the insane number of pockets it was going to have. It was going to be wicked and Dobby promised to put an extention charm on all of them. 

-//-

Dear Sirius, 
   I can't believe you're hanging around with everyone but me!

Am I not suppose to be your godson? Are you not suppose to be my godfather? Aren't we suppose to be  family too? 
  You said- you said you would come get me. You said we'd live together. You did, didn't you? Don't you remember? I suppose you must've forgotten about it then- about me? Let me jog your memory, Mr. Black. You said I could live with you or were you just saying that?

And don't you lie to me and say you're out of the country. I know you aren't. I'm not stupid. I know Ron and Hermione see you everyday. 

Sirius- please, please. I don't want stay here anymore. You've no idea what they're like. I do- and I don't want this anymore. I can't deal with this. I can't. 
 Please, please, please. I'm not feeling well. 
Don't you have any say at all? Can you ask Mr. and Mrs. Weasley if they'll have me? I know I'm a burden but I'll be good. I promise. They won't even know I'm there. Shit. I'm sorry. Just forget it. I know you have bigger things to worry about.  

Are you well, at least? Have you been eating well? I know it may sound tactless (and sorry about that) but you looked like you really needed that. (If only you hadn't insisted on living in a cave for so long. Not that I'm not grateful.)

You said you were bored. And my friends keep saying that they're bored everyday. At least you guys have each other to talk to, I don't think I've heard my own voice in days  I was going to send some muggle board games and such to them. They're my cousin's but he threw them away and I don't have anybody here to play with I never did  (except Hedwig but she doesn't like them very much. Although she likes playing chase.I suppose if I could fly on my broomstick right now then that would be fun to do with her.)

You guys could play a few games. They're suppose to be really fun. You could do with a bit of fun. 

Anyway, did I ever tell you how Hedwig became my friend? Hagrid said he'd get me an owl for school when we were out shopping on Diagon Alley and that was the very first time I saw her. I might've fallen head over heels. She was just so pretty and I'd never seen anything like her. There isn't a preetier girl in the world I swear. I told her so, naturally, she agreed and decided to come with me. I fear it got to her head, since. She thinks everyone's beneath her (not that she's wrong).You know she's really angry with you all, right? Last night, she tried convincing me to just get on my broomstick and fly elsewhere to stay for the summer. I fear all my sitting around listless and sad, lonely and upset  angry has frustrated her. She remembers the last time I didn't see my friends for a long time during the hols so she's extra agitated.

I haven't told you about that either, I don't think so. I suppose you can just ask Ron or the twins. Since all of you are just so bored.

You know, when I was little, like, before I knew I was a wizard, I always use to dream about a certain flying motorbike. I'd really like to get those dreams back. Else I'll have to try my hand at making dreamless sleep. 

Also, are all old people so annoying? We've got this batty old neighbour who used to babysit me and she keeps asking me around for tea. I like her well enough but her house always smells like boiled cabbage. It's not very pleasant. 

Don't be annoying when you're old. 
 

With Love, 
 Harry. 

(P.S— I sent the board games. Enjoy. Not too much though. I'll be jealous.)