Chapter Text
Harry groaned as he shifted slightly in his bed, back and ribs crying out as he did so. He was having the worst birthday of his life, and that was saying something. He really thought he’d taken the cake last year, what with Dobby and the pudding and the subsequent…punishment. But this one, this had to be worse. Honestly, at this rate he was beginning to think that his birthday was cursed, like Halloween was. Okay, maybe that was a little dramatic, the birthday curse part, not the Halloween one (look at his track record if you question that; his parents, being left at the Dursleys, a troll, petrifications, the usually Dursley…care), but he thought he was quite entitled to a bit of dramatics thank you very much.
Every year it seemed to get worse. When he was younger he hadn’t really known what his birthday was, until Dudley had found out somehow and teased him for not getting any presents or attention or anything really. Since then, it had gone from not being aware of it, to being aware and pained by the knowledge that no one acknowledged it, to it being acknowledged with increasingly worse punishments for daring to last quite this long.
He sighed, going to sit up and try to clear his thoughts before sharp pain shot through him and reminded him of why, exactly, that specific train of thought had begun.
“If it wasn’t for Aunt Marge, this would’ve been one of my best birthdays yet,” he thought morosely.
And it truly would have been.
He had started the day by counting down to midnight in his room, as was his tradition, and he had soon been greeted by a couple of his friends’ owls. Receiving gifts still sent thrills through him, it was only his second birthday that he had had friends for, and thus gifts to open.
After the gifts, and an attempt at sleep that hadn’t gone as poorly as usual, he had found himself up at 4 a.m. and buzzing with energy. He had resigned himself to not falling back asleep and immediately dug out the small bag that contained all of his school things. He had purchased the bag, along with several extra books, towards the end of the last school year over owl order (who knew that the Wizarding World had their own catalogue delivery service, all you had to do was contact Gringotts to set up a debit-card like service, and then you could order from just about anywhere). The bag was small enough to tuck under his clothes without his relatives seeing, but it had been equipped with an expansion charm so that he could not only fit all of his school books, his ink and quill, his wand, and some parchment, but also a small study area for himself to slip away to. The bag had been a Godsend this summer, when he was locked in his room for days on end and needed something, anything, that wasn’t the four walls of his bedroom.
The books themselves were also a miracle of sorts. He had been conversing with Hermione one day and she had offhandedly mentioned the fact that she had been recommended extra supplementary materials by her Hogwarts letter, to help her catch up on some wizarding culture and basic knowledge that Purebloods grew up with, but those who were Muggleborn or muggleraised often lacked.
Harry had been astounded. He had never heard of the books she had mentioned and, once he had learned of their contents and starting reading them for himself, suddenly everything made so much sense.
It turned out that he wasn’t stupid like he had thought. He had assumed, when everyone else seemed to just know certain things, like why wand movements were so important or why the direction you stirred in in potions mattered, that he wasn’t smart enough to get it. He didn’t bother asking anyone, he didn’t dare expose the fact that he didn’t know, he didn’t need another reason for his peers to look at him strangely. It didn’t help that there was that voice in the back of his mind, the voice that whispered “don’t ask questions or you’ll be punished, don’t speak, be silent, be quiet, be still, don’t exist, don’t exist, don’t exist.”
He hated that voice.
So, when he got the books, he devoured them. Hermione had been over the moon to see him taking such an interest in his studies and when he explained to her that he had always wanted to he just never knew he could, that he had struggled and thought he couldn’t, she had just looked at him, with those knowing eyes of hers and nodded.
“Harry, you can always come to ask me questions, you know,” she had said, still with that look in her brown eyes, her tightly curled hair fanning her warm, brown face. He had flinched slightly, biting down on his lip. He didn’t tell her about the voice, that stupid voice, the one that told him if he did well or if he spoke up in class or if he even dared to bother anyone or burden them with his stupid problems then he would be punished and his relatives would be right.
“Harry,” she had reached out to him, pausing when he flinched away. “Harry, honestly, you would be doing me a favor. I learn better when I can explain to others anyway and you know how I love to rant about a topic that interests me.”
So, he had nodded his agreement and, since then it seemed that anytime he even thought about asking a question, Hermione was there, assuring him and answering it, often before he could even voice it. Even in the few letters he had sent her over the summer, when he dared to hint that he was confused on something, she would eagerly write back a response, sometimes even recommending further material for him to understand it further.
And he loved it. When he had first started school he had been so excited to learn magic, to be able to do well in a place far from the Dursleys, but so much of that excitement had been shot down. He had arrived and in many of his classes, he had felt so behind. His other classmates seemed to just know things and he had no idea how they could focus in the common room or the noisy classroom when there were people talking and tapping their quills and jiggling their legs and…ugh.
It didn’t help that Ron was just as easily distracted as he was, the two of them often getting sidetracked in homework by some oddity in the room or an interesting tidbit in their textbooks that had them spiraling in a different direction for hours. Hermione wasn’t much better, but her distraction was different. She would finish her school work, but she would get so focused on it that she would move faster than either of them could follow and Ron had often had to draw Hermione back into reality when it was time for dinner, Harry himself never noticing as his stomach had long ago stopped signaling for food.
Now, though, he felt like he was able to focus and understand so much better. He had the background knowledge that made just about everything that he hadn’t understood before click for him. He had his quiet study space, and, at the very end of the year, he, Ron and Hermione had discovered a better system for their studying.
Hermione had continued to research over the summer, as she was wont to do, and she had figured out that the moments when he got so overwhelmed by the noises and the movements was likely something called sensory overload, and that he could focus so much better if he simply wore these fancy magic earbuds that blocked out most noise.
Ron had also mentioned something that had caught Harry and Hermione’s attention. One day, while they were all reading quietly in the library (Harry and Hermione’s preferred place of study), Ron had leaned back with a groan.
“I don’t understand how the two of you can read for so long without getting a headache from the bloody words moving around,” he had complained. Harry and Hermione had stared at him.
“Whatever do you mean Ron?” Hermione had asked.
“Huh? What do you mean ‘what do I mean?’” Ron retorted in confusion. “The words move around, just like the portraits and the photos and it takes forever for me to pin down the letters.”
Harry had leaned forward, the words niggling something in his brain, something an old classmate of his had said.
“Ron, you’re dyslexic?” He had asked.
“What?”
“Dyslexic,” Hermione had said, her voice entering her research tone. “It’s what muggles call it when someone has trouble reading due to an issue with how their brains process language.”
“Wait, so, the words don’t move around for everyone?”
“No,” Hermione had said slowly. “Actually, that gives me an idea…”
She had run off and about an hour later, returned with a small stack of books and a determined look on her face. Apparently, the Wizarding World had a spell to turn books into audiobooks as well as a dictation quill, and even one to change the font on books to make it easier to read. Needless to say, Ron had been blown away.
A few days later, after Hermione had brought them to the library for further research on a Charms assignment, Harry had started to research the Basilisk, wanting to know more about the thing he had killed. Soon enough, the three of them had gone down a research hole together, learning about different kinds of snakes and dragons. Ron had a wealth of information on the dragon aspect, thanks to Charlie, and Harry had researched non-magical snakes before in primary school when he had noticed that some tended to act oddly around him. Time had flown by and later Neville had found them in the library and dragged all three of them out for dinner, muttering something under his breath about how Hermione was spreading.
Now, Harry found himself looking forward to this school year more and more. He was determined that this would be his year. He would do well in his studies and he would be able to relax and enjoy his friends and Quidditch, without the mystery of the third floor corridor or the threat of a dangerous beast looming over his head.
This summer, when he had found himself woken from nightmares, he would study rather than staring at the ceiling. His summer homework had been complete in a week, and he was sure it was some of his best work yet. He couldn’t wait to see the look on Snape’s face when he handed in what Hermione had assured him looked to be worthy of full marks.
When things at the Dursleys’ got hard, when he hadn’t eaten in days, or when he was throbbing in pain from Harry Hunting or a Vernon Dursley special, or when he was exhausted from long days of hard labor but unable to sleep, he would read instead, learning as much about magic as he could.
That was why, in part, this birthday had been so hard because he had dared, for once, to hope that it may be decent.
Then Marge had turned up.
He had truly intended to be well behaved, he knew what the consequences were otherwise and he had, truly, wanted to get that Hogsmeade slip signed. But when she had begun to go after his parents, he had felt his magic swelling along with his anger. And, even though he kept his mouth shut, that voice in his head whispering keep quiet, don’t exist, his magic wasn’t as willing to listen. It had exploded out of him when she had made the comment about his mother. He had tried to flee the room before it could, but the next thing he knew Marge was swelling and swelling and he could feel his breath speeding up even more as his panic overwhelmed him.
He had attempted to flee, already feeling phantom stings on his back from Vernon’s belt, but before he could get far, Vernon had grabbed his arm and pinned him to a wall.
The next hour had been a blur.
A team of Obliviators had arrived and taken care of the situation, Marge had been returned to size and all the muggles had been obliviated. All the muggles, that is, but Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley Dursley.
Harry himself had merely been verbally warned by one of the Obliviators, saying something about how accidental magic was understandable under the circumstances. Harry had been too relieved at not getting expelled that he merely nodded, and, far too soon, all the wizards were gone.
After that, one Vernon Dursley had turned more purple than Harry had ever seen him and Harry had felt a sinking dread in his stomach that told him the next moments would not be pleasant, not for him.
And he had been right.
He had tried to keep consciousness for as long as he could while also trying to muffle any sounds of pain he wanted to produce. Making noise made it worse, he knew, and falling unconscious would only promise a worse meeting later.
Despite his efforts, as Vernon continued on and on, Harry couldn’t help but release cries of pain and, not long after that, the world had faded to black.
He had woken sometime later to a dark house. He had been left at the foot of the stairs, no one cared to bring the Freak to his room after a punishment. So, after what to have been at least a half hour of struggling, he had dragged himself up the stairs and into his room, where he had collapsed onto his bed and promptly fallen back into unconsciousness.
That was where he was now, groaning in his bed with the sky slowly lightening around him as he stared at the ceiling, far too pained to move to grab the bag hidden under the loose floorboard. He wanted to read, if only to take his mind off the pain and fear flooding through him, but he couldn’t move.
Both too long and too short of a time later, he heard his relatives begin to move about.
He heard them make their way downstairs and vaguely overheard Petunia make some comment about how “that lazy boy should’ve cleaned up after himself,” as she had reached the bottom of the staircase. Fortunately, he wasn’t called to do just that, as they likely knew that he wouldn’t be capable of doing anything other than making more of a mess given his current state. Unfortunately, that didn’t stop Vernon from paying a visit to his room.
“You’ll be locked in here for two days, boy, no meals. You will be let out twice a day to, clean yourself. Then, you will resume your chores and more to make up for what you have done. You’re lucky your fellow freaks would notice if we kicked you out, else you would’ve been turned out on the streets long ago, you ungrateful brat. Until you are released from this room, I expect to hear no noise from you, not a word, do you hear me?” He bellowed, his face turning redder as his speech turned on. Harry had pushed himself into a sitting position on his bed, biting his lip to keep from crying out. He nodded mutely.
“I said, do you hear me?” Vernon demanded, thundering over to Harry’s bedside.
“Yes, sir,” Harry whispered, head bowed. Vernon loomed over him, slapping him once in the back, right where the welts were from the previous night. Harry pressed his lips together to stop himself from screaming.
“You’re lucky your freak school things are already in your cupboard, boy, and that I don’t want to touch the stuff, else you’d be right where you belong,” he growled, shaking Harry slightly before turning and leaving the room. Harry sighed quietly as he heard the locks turn on his door. Something told him this was going to be a long summer.