Chapter Text
The boy was in his cupboard.
He paused, eyes in round frames pressed against the sliver of gold through the door, as dawn rose above Four Privet Drive; a moment of stillness seeping into the now quiet house.
It was in these moments, that the boy allowed himself to be curious. A spider ambled down onto the icy floorboards. The faint ticking of the kitchen clock could easily be mistaken for perhaps the clicking of some strange creature - or, as the boy liked to imagine, the steady footsteps of one of his toy knights as it came to life in the shape of a virtuous saviour, infinitely walking towards him, steadily on a march to tear open to locks on his cupboard and whisk him away to his nobel kingdom–
But the knight continued marching.
This night was no different to any other, and the boy allowed himself this simple respite into his thoughts, before his cousin Dudley’s large feet would undoubtedly rage down into the ceiling of the boy’s room, dusty sand falling onto the boy at every pound.
The boy didn't know when he fell asleep, he had counted up to six hundred and forty and the next thing he knew Aunt Petunia was rapping at the door, her bony hands heaving the heavy metal locks open as they protested and screeched.
‘Wake up boy, and have our breakfast ready before Vernon wakes up - you wouldn't want to mess up his special day!’
Harry obediently scrambled up, ran to the kitchen and dared to look at the clock - it was still ticking. Still just a clock.
Breakfast on Sundays was a fried egg, sausages, toast, butter, beans. If Dudley was feeling particularly ‘poorly’ -Which was around once a week- the boy would make what Petunia labelled ‘midweek Upsie’ day, which was what Harry privately labelled ‘Dudley-can’t-wait-four-more-days’ day.
4 Privet Drive didn’t own a stool, so he dutifully clambered onto the work surface, knobbly knees jutting out as he reached for the saucepans.
Fifteen minutes later, Harry carried three steaming plates onto the table, where the Dursley’s sat, and then straightened himself, ready to be dismissed.
‘The report cards came into the post yesterday night.’ Vernon announced. Petunia reached two arms around Dudley, kissing him into his hair parting.
‘And what do they have to say about Dudders?’ She swooned, voice so cloying the boy had difficulty refraining his gag. Dudley himself looked similarly palsy.
‘He is a well behaved young man, always excellent punctuality on assignments,-' Harry scoffed at that, Dudley would steal his homework and claim it as his own. '-sometimes disruptive- that must be that new young teacher, doesnt know what shes talking about-’
‘It’s an excellent report!’ Petunia cooed.
‘It’s a shame really,’ Vernon said, voice betraying neutral. ‘If only “Harry would hand in his actual work, and not plagiarise from his cousin… too quiet… disappointing class interaction,” If only you would act like Dudley, we wouldn't have to keep seeing these kinds of results. It's getting rather… monotonous.’ Vernon frowned, as though truly distraught, but after no response from the boy, placed the letter back on the table.
‘No wonder he can’t improve, He’s too illiterate to even understand what I’m saying!’ The man boomed, slapping Dudley good-heartedly on the shoulder. Dudley giggled.
The boy gritted his teeth, waiting.
‘Well? Get to it!’ Petunia finally snapped. ‘There are still plenty of things to get done!’
He headed into the kitchen, quickly doing the dishes and boxing the spare food into the fridge. Carefully, Silently, Harry turned towards the sounds of chatter in the dining room. They were distracted, Petunia gushing about Vernons promotion while Dudley stared at his eggs in boredom (Vernon’s job at Grunnings could send anyone to sleep, harry thought)
He quickly stuffed some bread into his mouth and chewed quickly. Swallowing some water directly from the tap, he continued doing the dishes.
Harry had been working for hours now. He was too short still to properly steer the lawnmower - and the summer heat made his back blister and burn from its intensity.
He considered going inside for some water, a break, a rest. But Harry knew what laziness meant for him - he would rather the sun to Vernon's punishments anytime.
By the time he had finished, cool evening air began to blow over him soothingly, and he stood proudly in front of the gleaming, symmetrical rows of striped dark green and light green grass. Not a blade was out of place.
Next on his list was to finish deep cleaning the bathrooms. Harry rolled up his sleeves.
And then, during the night, his uncle was there, leering and dangerous. Vernon didn't need to speak, to convey the festering danger Harry felt deep in his bones.
'Come here, boy' he said, never raising his voice. He was always deadly calm like this when it was bad. Calm was a dangerous emotion from his usual anger. Harry swallowed but imitated the calm. He refused to back down - this was all he had left.
'Be quiet, boy. You don't want to wake the rest of the house up, do you?' He continued maliciously, gesturing wildly.
‘Just like we practised.’
He understood the implications.
He had to be quiet or it would be ten times worse.The hurt, the broken and fixed and rebroken limbs, his hands. His touch.
Harry could take it.
Harry forced down his emotions deep into a locked box in his mind, and looked neutrally up at Vernon.
Once Dudley was asleep, and Petunia in bed, It began.
His uncle would spare him some kindness during the nights - on special occasions - he would love him more then anyone else in the house.
Even though Harry knew it was normal, knew it was a regular occurrence and knew that it would happen again and again, he could never shake off his repulsion.
It felt wrong, and the wrongness seeped into him like a virus he would never shake off. It must be his freakishness again, ruining all the good things in his life.
Soon, Vernon would bring others. Strange men with forgettable faces. He would ache for it to end. His Uncles' beady eyed smirk and gleam of excitement as Harry's skull hit the wooden floor. His eyes pressed shut, but he was silent. He knew that what they truly wished for was a reaction. But he would refuse to conform.
He felt hands - so many invading hands grabbing roughly around him, bruising, biting, scratching.
He couldn't breathe.
Harry's stomach bled from the metal sole of Vernon's boots, repeatedly kicking him relentlessly into the wall. Blood from his now broken nose dripped down his throat, making him splutter and cough.
He gasped.
And he knew the game was up.
Choking on blood and spit Harry attempted to force himself to cough - despite the constraints of his throat pleading for him to stop coughing. Harry had to cough, why was it so hard to breathe? Tears streamed down his face and his vision swam in pain and fear.
Uncle Vernon and the strange men merged all into one, swerving and swarming his vision. He felt hands on his shoulders, shaking him roughly - his broken joints screaming at him to escape the grasp.
His uncle leaned in close to Harry on the ground, lifting his chin up.
‘See? He’s feisty - but he always caves in the end.’
Harry sobbed into the floor, his back slick with blood and vile substances which dripped down onto the floor around him. He could barely open his eyes further than slits, but he was vaguely aware of various monetary transactions and then his world faded to black.
__________
Harry was eight now - tall enough to reach the counters, tall enough to do his chores. His hair had grown longer, and messier than ever before. No matter how many times his aunt would cut it it would always grow back, thick, ebony curls framing his face and tickling his shoulders.
His aunt was crying as he crept through the dark corridor. Vernon had left for the night, and her owlish tear stained eyes peered at him through her open door. Her grey eyes narrowed coldly.
‘What do you think you're doing? Creeping around the house at this time of night.’ She muttered.
‘I’m sorry,’ Harry mumbled back, taking a step away from her. He would have to get some food once she was asleep again.
‘Let me see that.’ She said roughly, gesturing to his latest wound - a messy but relatively shallow cut on the side of his neck. Harry could already feel it healing, his body always healed at impossible speeds.
Harry edged closer to the room, cautiously. Petunia had thin plastic gloves on as he stepped into the room. She poured bleach onto a cloth, tears drying on her face.
She rubbed his neck with the bleach, causing Harry to flinch. She then made him remove his shirt, and began to rub the bleach all over his skin fervently.
‘It won’t come off…’ Petunia murmured to herself like a mantra, long after the blood was gone. His skin was pink and the bleach stung all his wounds, but Harry deliberately remained still until Petunia was calm once more. She harshly scrubbed and scrubbed at his neck, motioning him to remove his shirt. Harry revealed his torso and the various new additions from the last week of Vernon and his patrons’ inflictions. His back was mottled, scars twisting like vines over his protruding vertebrae.
She moved on from his neck to his back, ruthlessly scrubbing him down with the bleach. He couldn't help his eyes glossing over as the bleach infected his wounds, but dutifully remained put until her eyes began to droop, the cloth dropping to the floor.
Harry closed his eyes briefly, and breathed out. Hold for five. Breathe in. He guided his aunt to her bed and placed the bleach back in the drawer. He debated on taking off her gloves, as she was definitely asleep now, but he decided against it. His aunt refused to touch him without her gloves, he didn't want her to think she had accidentally touched him if she woke up without them.
Harry closed the door, and crept into his cupboard under the stairs once more. He imagined what it would be like to be dirt-free. He was always contaminated these days - Vernon would get phases where he would be more passionate than other times - but now time seemed to merge together and his mind fogged over as if he watched his life from a film. Whether Harry was safe at school, or if Vernon’s friends were around, nothing seemed to affect him anymore. He was struck by this odd sense of detachment from his life.
But in between the numbness, something surged beneath the surface. Harry always could feel it - a spark of something unintelligible and hidden ready to unleash itself when it was all too intense. Something like anger - like resistance. Because it wasn't fair.
As he lay on his stomach, his back too injured to sleep on, Harry let the strange wave of something come over him. He breathed out in frustration. Suddenly his back tingled and his injured neck felt like ice. It was a strange feeling, like the feeling when it was so cold it felt hot.
He let his eyes close.
His back was… clean. This was the first thing Harry noticed as he looked himself over in the mirror with his toothbrush in his mouth. Well, not clean clean. The gash on his shoulder was now a pink rippled scar, sensitive to the cold and achy when he pressed into it. But it was healed.
Harry knew he had something inside of him, something that made him different to his peers, different to Dudley. It was an unspoken wall between himself and his relatives, something that didn't have a name but was still so obvious to the household - an unspoken taboo.
When Harry was younger, this tingling sensation came naturally. He was too young to remember what had happened, but Harry knew that when he misbehaved, the feeling would work alongside him. His hair would grow back, his clothes would reappear when Dudley stole them, and he would dry immediately when Dudley and his friends would splash water on him during school. But he had learnt to suppress it fast - it was the one thing that Petunia despised most. It was abnormal, it was wicked.
But despite this, this power was the one thing that kept him free. It was a part of him, it made him unique. And as Harry stood in front of the mirror, his body practically new, he understood.
He could control this magic . He could heal wounds. He could alleviate one of the constant pains which came with living with the Dursleys, just by falling asleep.
It started with experiments. Harry would breathe in and out in his closet, and allow the tingling sensation to spread around the room. It wouldn't do anything more than that - but it was there. He could feel the electricity, the warmth. This was something he had, and no one could take this away from him.
The months after his eighth birthday dragged on. Harry grew more and more curious, and adventurous. He knew how to survive in this house. He could control the magic, if he tried really hard, when nobody was looking. He could clean the entire kitchen, better than he had ever done before, just by willing it! And, when those times came, His magic too would carefully compliment the fog in his mind to make nights with Vernon and the men who gave Vernon money manageable. The magic seemed to work not only outside of him, but inside of him too. Harry liked to imagine great, icy waves crashing onto his mind, plunging him into the coldest deep black sea, which not even the disgust or shame of the deeds he had to perform could permeate. It was the most impactful discovery so far - It was as though his visualisations of drowning his psyche would come true, and he could much more easily detach his mind from his body.
The more he practised, the more he realised what he was capable of. He had to start small, as when he tried to release all of his magic, all it resulted in was a scorch mark on the grass of the back garden, and a burn, worse than any other burn he had experienced, permanently scorched over most of his leg below his knee.
It scarred him, but it was also a reminder of who he was. A reminder of a lesson he would come to learn: magic needed control.
But little things, small victories, were possible. He was able to run faster than before to escape Dudley. And he practised lifting things, for an entire week he tried to lift every cleaning instrument in the cupboard to a precise height, and his accuracy improved drastically.
He was able to steal things - food from shops when he was hungry. He was able to summon things now too! Books from the library that he saw on his way home from school he could make appear in his room, which now made his nights interesting, and he studied topics he could never study before with a dedicated passion: maths, science, geography. He learnt about places far from Four Privet Drive, where you could ride elephants and go to festivals with face paint and loud music.
He learnt that his magic followed the laws of the rest of the world - and learning these laws and calculations also made him aware of how to utilise magic.
For example, Harry couldn't just lift things by themselves, but, if he willed the pressure of the air around an object, it would lift easily without him even touching it.
School was now ten times more fun than it ever was, now that Harry had mastered avoiding Dudley. His grades improved, and he now had interests he could immerse himself in.
It would soon be his ninth birthday, and Harry felt that he had come to terms with his life. He no longer cried, for when he was being lashed, he knew he could return to his books afterward. When he was called stupid, he knew it wasn't true because he understood his classes, and his grades were far better than Dudley's. He knew his life was worth less, but it was okay, because he had his magic, and he had his magic which would turn his mind to ice when things became too much.
It was the evening before his birthday when he cracked.
Vernon had invited one of his friends, and today the man positioned a camera in Vernon's study, which wasn’t unusual. It wasn't meant to be any different than normal.
‘Come here, boy,’ The man said, sitting on Vernon's swivel chair, legs spread apart in a relaxed posture. The man was more controlled than most - he never sprang onto Harry, but demanded it nonetheless. Harry swallowed, face blank, and walked forwards. The man pulled him onto his lap.
‘Harry,’ he hated hearing his name on the tongue of a stranger. ‘Tonight I have a special offer for you - one I believe you will enjoy.’ The man stated, a soft and inviting smile on his face.
Harry tensed.
‘Well, boy? Do you want to hear it?’ His voice was now cold.
‘What’s your offer, Sir?’ Harry responded. The man placed a large, wrinkled hand on Harry's head, and began to pet his messy curls. He felt sick.
‘Tonight, I will take you to my place, is that okay?’ Harry froze. The rules were that Harry had to stay in the study, at all times.
‘Sir- I don’t think-’ He began
‘Shh, it's okay,’ the man continued. ‘I’m sure you will make friends with the others there!’ He smiled. ‘They are a little older than you, but only by a couple years. You will love it there, I’m sure.’ The man places his other hand around Harry’s stomach.
Harry felt nauseous. This man had children in his home - children like him, forced to do what Harry had to do. He felt bile in his mouth.
‘Come now, Harry. Don't pretend you don’t want this! It’s uncommon for children to want to fuck adults all the time, but you’ll get all the attention you could ever ask for,’ He gestured to the camera, holding Harry by the chin.
Harry began to shake.
‘Uncl-’ Harry attempted to shout, but the man's hand slid over his mouth, muffling him. All too suddenly, the man slipped his fingers into Harry’s mouth, down to his throat, causing Harry to gag.
Harry felt a cold panic surrounding him. All he could feel was the man around him, and his magic surged.
Harry couldn't breathe - and the great ocean seeping into his mind wouldn't come, and why wouldn't it suffocate him like usual, everything was just too much and too loud and-
Harry was thrust backwards, hands over his eyes as he felt and heard an explosion.
The man was sprawled on his back, the chair on its side away from him, and there was blood forming a pool by the man's head.
I’ve just murdered somebody. And then, Vernon's going to kill me.
A mixture of relief and horror seeped into Harry as he saw the man sitting up, rubbing his head. There was shattered glass everywhere from Vernon's expensive table, and paper documents were ripped into pieces all around the room. The furniture was splintered.
Harry was going to die.
In Harry’s hesitation, the man had taken the time to get up, and began to grin, a sick and warped grin that looked as though his mouth was stretching unnaturally.
‘Oh, so you're magickal, are you?’ He stepped closer, Harry backing away equally towards the door.
‘Iv’e always wanted to fuck a magickal child.’
Harry began to tug at the locked door handle, eyes wild and knuckles white from the pressure.
‘You don’t really think you will receive any help if you escape that door, do you?’ The man chided. He had blood running down his forehead, and his brown eyes were wide in mania.
‘Think about it Harry.’ He inched closer, and Harry felt this magic surge again within him. An anger colder than ever before.
‘With me you will have all the food, sex and love a boy like you could ever want. They clearly don't feed you properly, do they, Harry?’ He sneered.
The magic grew. It sparked around him.
‘I can make you feel good,’
It was in the air, this dark force that made the room heavier.
‘Get away from me!’ Harry cried out, and soon it was too much.
The magic bursted out of him, and for a split second of time, it was a beautiful thing. Blues and blacks and reds swirled together into one ray of colour, as though everything that he had ever gone through - every beating from Vernon, every bleach down from Petunia, every last chore, every time he would have to make an excuse to the teachers as to why he had injuries, even every moment he had ever been proud of himself, for learning something new, for those moments he felt he was worthy of something when he did his magic - all were finally able to be free.
The man's body collapsed in front of Harry. It was just as grotesque as it was satisfying. Blood and chipped bone splattered onto Harry and into the room. Harry thought darkly, not quite in the present, that he hoped that the smell of flesh would never leave the study. Vernon would have to smell it when he read his daily newspaper. Petunia would never get it off no matter how hard she scrubbed. Harry had finally impacted the residence in a way he had never before - he was no longer invisible.
All three of Harry’s relatives came quickly into the room, their loud footsteps like daggers in Harry’s ears.
Dudley was screaming and crying, and Harry cringed when the boy feinted.
Vernon looked at the scene and at Harry in fear and pure rage, and Petunia was white and trembling, tears already running down her cheeks.
Harry ran past them, grabbing his school backpack from outside the study as he ran. He knew he had to leave. His waves washed over him, and with a detachment from the situation, Harry ran to his closet. From there, he only had one belonging he would take - his toy knight. He then sprinted to his aunt and uncle's room, ignoring the loud footsteps behind him. He plunged his hand into Petunia's hidden stash of money in her skincare bag, stuffing his bag with the wads of neatly stacked notes.
The last thing he stole was Dudley's raincoat, and then he paused, waiting to hear his relatives.
He needed to be unseen, but with how small the house was it would be nearly impossible. He would need to rely on his magic. Harry closed his eyes, hoping to gods he didn't believe in, and grasping onto any luck he could manage. The tingling surrounded him, like a thick blanket, but Harry looked down and he could still see his body.
‘BOY!’ Vernon stormed into the room, eyes searching wildly. Harry stood as still and quiet as he could, allowing himself to cry for the first time in nearly a year.
It was over.
He would die soon.
‘I WILL kill you when I find you!’ His uncle belted. His eyes continued to roam around the room, before slamming it and moving on. He hadn't seen harry. The boy breathed out a sigh of sheer relief, and, making sure that the feeling of a thick blanket was still present, began the slow process of silently creeping down the stairs and reaching for the keys for the front door.
Spotting the key hooks, Harry quietly grasped the house key and walked towards the door.
‘Did you kill Dudley? HAVE YOU KILLED MY SON?’
Harry flinched, and dropped the keys. And just like that, the spell was over, and he was visible again. Vernon turned red.
‘He’s only feinted, I swear-’ Harry whispered, trying to jam the key into the lock. His hands were so sweaty, and his vision so blurry, that the task of twisting the key the right way seemed impossible. He should give up. He wouldn't get the door open, and Vernon was approaching with a kitchen knife, and he was swiping at Harry with a dangerous fever.
Vernon sliced Harry’s face, and a crimson stream shot into his right eye.
‘You’re not fucking going anywhere!’ Vernon roared.
Harry panicked, and began to hit the door, his magic causing weak punches to be small craters.
‘Please -’ A bony arm gripped bruisingly on his shoulder, Petunia beginning to kneel down next to him. ‘He’s my boy, he’s my whole world…’ She was hiccuping and thicker tears whelmed in her red eyes. Harry was mortified, he knew Dudley couldn't be dead. He began to frantically try to fit the key into the lock, hands shaking so much and vision blurry - his glasses must've fallen at some point.
‘How could you do this to us? To me.’ Petunia sat on the floor, rocking backwards and forwards.
He couldn't hear the sound of the door opening over his pounding heartbeat, but his hand had somehow properly twisted the key, and he flung the door open. Vernon was shouting again, swiping the knife madly, grazing Harry’s arm.
Harry ran.
__________
Harry headed to the corner shop with a numb guilt sitting in the bottom of his stomach. He had found out that, if strained, his magic would stop all together. So he needed to train to use magic for longer, which he tried to do every day. Today, he would stay outside the shop entirely, and get himself three sandwiches, which would last him until tomorrow evening. There was a familiar satisfying pop, and he felt his backpack weigh down slightly.
Harry made his way back to his shelter - for now it was a storage unit in London. He liked to move often though - he couldn't get too comfortable.
The more time passed, the more Harry realised he should have left sooner. Although he was never safe on the streets, London had the benefits that it was always busy, and he was small enough to disappear into thin air when needed. Nights were dangerous, but after a few fiascos of having people trail him and having to turn invisible, Harry made sure he was always in his storage unit before dark.
Food and water wasn't a problem when you were magical, and stealing anything he needed became very easy. He was effectively free.
The main problem was the cold.
A few months into being homeless, Harry noticed that his magic depleted when he was tired, stressed, or burned out. On some days, he couldn't do magic at all as he barely slept - he needed to be awake enough to move immediately if it was required.
Using his magic sparingly worked for stealing, but magically warming himself all the time was draining, and near impossible. Often, he would spend his nights sitting in a foetal position, breathing in and out slowly, learning to control and monitor his warmth over hours and hours.
Harry learned how to live.
He would spend most of his time in the public library - as he didn't have a card he would have to read there instead of the unit- and the rest of his time he would spend practising magic.
As the months grew colder, Harry’s condition worsened. He woke up one day, extremely cold, with a sheen of sweat coating his entire body. He felt sluggish and sick, and knew that if his condition did not improve soon, he might not make it to spring. The fever that he had been ignoring for the past week was impossible to deny now, as he laid on a mat, shaking and sweaty.
Forcing his legs to cooperate, Harry somehow made his way to the library, where he researched local shelters where it would be warm. After thoroughly checking the map, he tried to stand up, not looking forward to being in the cold.
Harry stood up - and his vision swirled.
‘Are you okay, dearie?’ A soft, elderly lady's voice could be heard from beside him. The lady had a reassuring grip on his elbow, which Harry flinched away from.
Petunia’s bony arm on his shoulder.
‘Erm,’ He began. His throat was parched, and he had no water left. He would have to go steal some water from the shop on his way to the shelter.
‘Do you need any help?’
Harry shook his head. He couldn't accept help from anyone. It just didn't work like that for people like him - he had nothing to give in return. And he would never again go back to serving anyone like Vernon forced him to.
‘I’m alright.’ Harry said quietly, and walked out the automatic doors.
He barely remembered getting to the corner shop, but when he did he sluggishly walked inside, having no energy to use his magic today.
He walked to the drinks fridge, and discreetly pulled out a bottle of water, stuffing it into his hoodie when the tired employee wasn't looking. Next, Harry went to the medicine aisle. There wasn't much choice, but he grabbed some Tylanon and painkillers, and put them in his hoodie too.
Just as Harry left the shop, a beeping alarm resounded from the door. Harry booked it.
An unfamiliar hand grabbed the scruff of his neck, and pushed him to the floor harshly.
‘Where do you think you're going, you little devil?’ shouted the stranger. Harry was pushed back into the shop, with a last ‘don't take whatcha can't pay for!’ Thankfully, the cashier didn’t seem too interested, and he was only made to return the items.
Harry sat on the side of the pavement, late into the night, shivering and feverish. He could barely move, and he couldn't even feel a tingle of magic. He was empty .
He needed to get a place to stay, and fast. Looking at the unfamiliar street he had perched on, Harry noticed an apartment building. With what little strength he had left, Harry lugged himself over to it. Walking inside the entrance led him to a passageway with room numbers. Harry was tired, and yet he felt a feeble pull to the stairs. Harry followed the pull, like a silver thread, which led him to a locked room, with a ‘to let’ sign.
Harry allowed himself to slump at the entrance for a moment, consciously breathing in and out.
He could do this.
I want the room to open . He thought. Nothing. More breathing. Open the door. More nothing.
Tears formed in his eyes. Please, open the door-
‘Harry Potter?’