Chapter Text
The day will fail me; Phoebus will have bathed
his panting horses in the deep sea waves,
before I can include in my discourse
the myriad things transforming to new shapes.
Ovid, Metamorphoses, Book XV
It was only noon. Even so, Harry knew it was going to be the hottest day of the year.
Heat scorched his back through a shirt he was, for once, grateful had been worn thin by its previous owner. It was either the scalding temperature or the boredom that made him think he could see the heat rippling around the blades of dried grass... Was it even possible to see heat?
Head rolling back, he stared out at the playground.
He imagined himself going back to Privet Drive later and scratching out the question on a piece of parchment, sending it along with Hedwig. Wouldn’t be worth it, he concluded glumly. It wasn’t like he had heard a single word of response from either Hermione or Ron to any of the other letters he had sent the past several months. Those had had questions too.
And so Harry rocked mindlessly on a swing in an abandoned playground and reflected, with the sort of inappropriate humor that only manifested in the most miserable of circumstances, that he was possibly as pathetically alone and effectively friendless as he had been when he was eleven. As though nothing had changed, after all.
He worried at a jutting rock in the dirt with his foot.
Funny, really, he thought, that every time he returned from Hogwarts, Privet Drive and Surrey seemed exactly the same, like everything that happened at Hogwarts had only been some sort of fever dream. Other people his age probably enjoyed the summer. As each endless day went by, Harry only grew more resentful of it. Summer was a test against doubt, one that always left him weak and desperate by its end.
But maybe this summer was different, Harry acknowledged. Maybe, this time, he was almost half-glad for the doubt, considering what he had left behind.
A loud whoop, unfortunately familiar, rang through the playground from near its edges. Harry looked up, eyes narrowing, and found much of what he had expected to see.
Astonishingly, as little as had changed for Harry in Surrey in the past five years, Dudley had managed to make more friends. Dennis, Harry thought, had the unfortunate kind of face that instantly communicated nastiness to anyone looking. It was a peculiar kind of unfairness, though, that Piers Polkiss (who had remained devotedly beside Dudley all these years) had such benign features—wide eyes, soft chin, gentle laugh lines—when he also spent most of his evenings terrorizing children half his size.
There were also two more behind the trio that Harry didn’t recognize. New recruits, probably.
“If you want to make a name for your little gang, Dudley, in Surrey of all places,” Harry sighed, “you know you’re going to have to get braver than beating up ten year-old kids, right?”
“Good thing we’ve found you then, isn’t it?” Piers Polkiss grinned.
Harry’s eyes went to Dudley. “Really?" he said, voice flat.
In response, Dudley crossed his arms, biceps straining the cloth of his reflective, red jacket. Baby blue eyes blinked back at him, glinting with malice. “There's a natural order here, Potter. I think you've forgotten that. Think you need a reminder.”
Harry evaluated his chances of running before they could get to him. Dudley and Dennis wouldn’t be a problem. But Piers Polkiss looked like he could still be quick.
It had been a while since he had had to make these sorts of calculations. Harry Hunting had fallen out of fashion after Hagrid had attached a pig tail to Dudley all those years ago.
But Dudley had gotten larger since then and his friends had too. Apparently, so had their arrogance.
“That’s…really not smart,” Harry tried. “You know I—"
“You can’t use that thing during the summer.”
The new boys behind Dudley, Piers, and Dennis began laughing, even though they couldn't possibly know what Dudley was talking about. Harry stared.
“Yeah,” Dudley called out, with a wide, mean grin. “So who’s going to protect you now, Potter? Huh?”
The rest of the self-proclaimed gang only fed off this in turn, their laughter reaching higher pitches, hyena-like.
“Your mum?” Piers crowed.
Harry's heels dug into the ground, the swing abruptly stilling.
“What,” Harry said, deathly quiet, “did you say?”
Dudley stepped forward, face red with giddiness. “Well? Where is your mum?”
“Where’s your mum, Potter?” one of the new ones picked up the chorus. Piers Polkiss’s cackle rang sharply.
Where’s your mum, Potter? Your mum, Potter, where is she—
“Is she dead?”
Harry froze, jaw tightening in acute restraint.
“Is she dead?” Dudley jeered once more.
“Is MUMMY dead—”
Harry didn’t even remember pulling out his wand. The next second, he had crossed the yards between them, and his wand was poised at his cousin’s throat. Dudley instantly froze, Adam’s apple bobbing under the blunt edge of Harry’s wand. His friends quieted, the jeering laughs dying out abruptly in the abandoned playground, as though perplexed into silence by the strange tableau in front of them.
“What the hell is he doing with that stick?” Harry heard someone mutter.
The swing creaked behind them, rocking still from the violence with which Harry had launched from it.
“Y-you can’t do this stuff outside of school,” Dudley said under his breath, stretching upwards as though to make himself bigger than he was.
“I’m not allowed to,” Harry agreed. He leaned forward. “But you know…everyone has a breaking point. And I think I just found mine.”
He lifted his wand and prepared to transfigure his only cousin into—well, he hadn’t quite figured that part out yet.
But Harry paused. He was hard-pressed to explain to himself why the hairs on his arms had suddenly risen, except that—inexplicably, on the hottest day in years—the air had abruptly become frigid. Thunder rumbled above, dark clouds stretching across the sky. Dudley’s friends fled, arms wrapping protectively around their brand-new leather coats, at the threat of rain.
“P-Potter!” Dudley yelled hoarsely, pinned in place by the wand at his throat. “Stop it! Stop doing this—GET THAT THING AWAY FROM ME!”
“It’s not me,” Harry hissed, yanking away his wand.
“Stop it, Potter!” Dudley whimpered, batting away at invisible hands, “It’s so cold…I can't…I can't feel…”
Harry’s eyes widened with realization, because the numbing chill sweeping through his body was undeniably familiar now.
No. It couldn’t be. But when— When was the last time had he felt exactly like this?
“Come on, Dudley,” Harry encouraged, all previous ill feelings forgotten. “We need to run. Now.”
And for some unknown reason—because he had never done in the past—Dudley listened.
Dudley began flat out sprinting, Harry himself following closely behind. They turned into a dark alley decorated with colorful graffiti, both realizing too late that it was a dead end.
“P-Potter.” Dudley shuddered as he crumpled in on himself.
Harry felt little more than incredulity as his cousin passed out. His mind struggled to catch up, to comprehend what was happening. Although torturous and mind-numbing, for all that summer was those things and more, it had never been dangerous.
The first dementor appeared.
“Expecto Patronum!” Harry cried. A few wisps manifested.
The dementor was beginning to suck at Dudley’s face.
“EXPECTO PATRONUM!” Harry screamed. He repeated the words over and over as the dementor neared.
Except it wasn’t working, and he couldn’t see anymore, because a terrible green light had flooded his vision.
Happy thoughts, Harry reminded himself desperately as the dementor approached him. Gritting his teeth, he forced images of Hermione and Ron into his head. But even as he continued whispering the saving words, he also remembered the unreturned letters. No shining stag flew from his wand. Instead, he heard Lily Potter's screams as she was murdered.
The dementor came closer, drawing more energy from him. Harry’s legs collapsed beneath him. Hermione. Ron. Sirius. Hogwarts. Hermione. Ron. Sirius. Hogwarts. HermioneRonSiriusHogwarts—
We’re with you whatever happens.
“Expecto Patronum,” Harry gasped, forcing himself to cling to those few words.
At last, the stag burst forth, bold and triumphant. Harry felt the pulsations of his magic as it galloped along the dank alley.
But Harry only had one, short moment to celebrate his belated victory. Because the next thing he knew was incredible agony. Back shuddering violently, he found his body contorting. Hands—his hands–clenched tightly to the sides of his head in an effort to rid himself of the pain.
Then his eyes rolled back into his head and he passed out.