"Boy, get down here!" a shrill voice yelled up the stairs. I swear the lazy good for nothing, waking all the decent people up at all hours of the night with his shrieking, she muttered. Taking a deep breath she bellowed "Boy I said GET DOWN HERE". A slim teen in a t shirt twice his normal size walked gingerly down the stairs. His jeans weren't in any better shape, oversized in a way that might have been fashionable if it wasn't so obvious that they were years out of date.
Black hair sprouted in locks from his forehead, it might have been wavy if it was longer it wasn't. The teen's most striking feature was a pair of emerald green eyes that gazed out sleepily at his aunt. "Good Morning, Aunt Petunia" the teen half yawned. "Save your good mornings for when you're out of this house for good boy." The woman snapped. Her blond hair whipping around as she scanned the spotless foyer for…something.
"Where did I put my keys" she muttered. "Have you checked your purse?" the boy suggested. "You hush" she hissed. "You're the reason I'm in this shape. Up at all hours of the night. I guess your kind don't need sleep." She noticed the boy at least had the decency to appear embarrassed. She jerked her fingers upward. "You can spend the day cleaning out the attic. Let's see if a little hard work for once will help you sleep." she said. "Yes, Aunt Petunia" the boy replied tiredly as he walked absent mindedly toward the kitchen.
Sighing in exasperation, his aunt finally walked out the door. Harry Potter made sure his aunt was gone before he grabbed an apple from the fruit basket. Usually his relatives didn't mind if he ate the fruit, it helped keep up the appearance that his obese cousin was actually attempting a facsimile of a diet if the fruits that Aunt Petunia bought for show were actually eaten instead of just being thrown in the bin.
Sighing tiredly, he turned and walked back up the stairs toward the attic. At least his aunt was right about something, working all day in the attic would keep his mind off Cedric. It was an odd feeling, to be only fifteen and yet responsible for someone's death. He wondered how his "family" would feel if they found that he – unlike his innocently convicted godfather – was actually responsible, albeit indirectly, for someone's death. He shook his head to clear it. He wasn't responsible for Cedric's death. He wasn't. Wormtail was responsible for Cedric's death. The same rat whose life he had saved just a year prior.
He stooped low as he reached the entrance to the attic. He had never been allowed up here when he was younger. He wondered briefly if the Dursley's had considered this space for his bedroom before they decided on the coat closet because of the relative lack of space. He coughed as he pushed open the door to the attic. Years of Dursley power tools littered the space, relics of the countless times his Uncle Vernon had tried to fix something before finally conceding that maybe those "good for nothin' trade schoolers actually knew something."
He had no idea what his aunt expected him to do with this place. Move the piles of broken junk into more orderly piles of broken junk? He stepped over a hedge trimmer that that was wedged as if to decapitate the first unfortunate soul to trip over its cord and moved to the window that was offering the only source of light in the cavernous room. Conveniently enough a bench with a white blanket was seated directly under it.
Carefully, he made his way through the piles of detritus to the window. He decided it just wouldn't do if he didn't at least make a show of disturbing the dust in the room so he mentally sorted the piles into two factions: lethal and non-lethal. He decided that the decades of gardening equipment could go into the darkest section of the attic. After all, discouraging Aunt Petunia's flashes of inspiration while he was still stuck at Privit Drive was always a worthy goal.
The random nuts and bolts he saw would never make a complete set anywhere but he figured they might make a good present for Mr. Weasley. The man was completely gung ho about anything muggle he could corner Hermione or Harry to talk about yet somehow it had yet to sink in that Muggles almost never repaired appliances. They replaced them, usually while the original model was in perfect working condition.
Resolved, he set about rearranging the piles into something resembling order. The huge, non-working lawnmower was the first to go. He pushed it into the black hole at the opposite end of the attic, kicking up a cloud of dust as it goes. On the way back he does non-mandatory resorting of junk. Old catalogs, a moth eaten blue baby blanket, magazines with faded images of busty women that make him gag when he considers their purpose until the dust that covers him at last has faded to black. His Aunt would be arriving back soon and if he looked sufficiently filthy he might be spared the indignity of dinner with the family – after he cooked it of course.
Pleased with his progress he turned back to the bench to rest until he heard his aunt's car return up the drive. Unfortunately one of the hoses he had so carefully "resorted" wrapped itself around his ankle and Harry found himself scrambling for purchase as the blanket slipped and his head came into contact with the hard wood of the "bench". Examining it closer he saw that it was not a bench at all, rather it looked like an exact copy of his Hogwarts school trunk. What the hell was his aunt Petunia doing with a Hogwarts school trunk?
Frowning slightly, he tested the lock, yanking his hand back in surprise when the thing bit him. His frown increased when he saw that his had was indeed bleeding. Stupid bloody trunk. Oh how he wished they were allowed to use magic outside of school. One Alohormora could have saved his fingers. Looking again he saw that the trunk was slightly open. Oh so blood was the key. It figures that the only clue he would find to his real life in the Dursley household reeked of dark magic.
Looking around he found a wrench to his right and used it to root around in the trunk a little. It looked like whoever had used it last didn't bother to keep their trunk any tidier than he did his. Finding no more bobby traps he reached in and pulled out a book that was sitting up, spine concealed. It was Miranda Hoshgawk's Standard Book of Spells Grade 5. Harry smiled. He now knew without a doubt whose trunk had bit him. His mother's.
"Boy! Get Down Here. You Better be finished with that Attic", his aunt shrieked up the stairs. "Yes Aunt Petunia" Harry called down. He picked up SBoS and a few other books out of the trunk before stuffing them in Dudley's oversized pockets. He scrambled through the path he had made to the door and down the steps to the kitchen where his aunt was waiting for him. She turned to appraise him as he made to enter the kitchen, holding up a hand to bar him entrance. "Well you're certainly filthy, but is the attic any cleaner? You better not just be messing about up there boy Vernon will be inspecting it at the end of the week. Now go wash that muck off and then come back down here and make dinner. Make sure you follow Dudley's diet sheet. I won't have him losing any matches because of your incompetence." The hand that was blocking him from the kitchen became a finger pointing him back up the stairs and Harry made the trek for the fifth time that day, meanwhile Petunia's damn hippo sat lounging on the couch watching the telly.
Harry came down and quickly made a dinner of skirt steak, sweet potato, and broccoli for the Dursleys and himself. He made sure to take extra helpings of all the "rabbit food" just to irk his uncle. It works. "Well boy. I guess you finally found out what food source you're good for. You see meat is for hard working men. Not fairies who will never work a day in their lives."
Harry schooled his features into what he hoped was a blank expression. No response would rile his uncle more than words ever could. "What are you staring at boy? Get back up to that room of yours you've polluted the air down here long enough. And be sure to write that good for nothing godfather of yours since apparently he wants you even less than we do."
Harry had to suck in a breath at his uncle's jab toward Sirius. He truly believed his Godfather was sincere when he offered Harry a chance to live with him at the end of their third year, but nothing much had been said of it during Harry's fourth year and at the end of it Sirius had left him with a promise to "See you soon" in the hospital wing. That was three weeks ago. Still at least he was in regular contact with Sirius, who owled at least twice a week. His friends had been practically radio silent apart from short missives assuring him that all was well in their worlds and sympathetic platitudes about his plight with his relatives.
He pulled open the door to the smallest bedroom on Privet Drive and allowed himself to fall onto the bed in a heap. Smiling slightly at how well the evening went he reached into his pockets to pull out the books from his mother's trunk. In addition to the Standard book of spells he had managed to grab The Salamander Guide to Potion Ingredient Interactions, Most Potente Potions, and what looked like a handwritten journal. Casting the potions books aside for the moment he picked up the journal, feeling a twinge of guilt at picking up something his mother had obviously intended to be kept private. The inside cover was etched with a calla lily. Underneath it the words "Magic is Might" were inscribed. Harry furrowed his brow, he thought he was sure he had heard those words somewhere else but couldn't for the life of him recall where. The first entrance was dated September 7, 1976.
"Dear Diary,
I've made Head Girl. I guess I knew it was coming – you can't be the darling of both Gryffindor and Slytherin heads of house, have Flitwick in your back pocket, receive 11 O.W.L.s and not be made Head Girl. Still it's nice to be validated. Apparently the requirements for Head Boy have been altered slightly: receiving a record number of detentions, lack of a prefect badge, and an equal number of O.W.L.S. is all it takes to be Head Boy of the class of '77, I'm not sure how that makes me feel. On the one hand my ascendency was nearly set in stone, on the other Dumbledore making Potter Head Boy is all the proof anyone should need that the old man has finally gone barmy. I don't think backing off their near constant war with Slytherin House is enough to award any of Hogwart's infamous marauders with a Head Boy badge. I would say better Potter than Black but as they seem to share the same brain half the time I suppose it doesn't matter. But they've really quieted down lately, Hogwarts only saw three memorable pranks last year: The Halloween switch, and those fireworks at the start and end of term. Not that I'm complaining, it took three days for my hair color to come back after the leaving feast. The muggle laughed at me for three days. I suppose blue hair and green eyes is an interesting combination, but then again so is Petunia's face. Thankfully last summer was indeed my last summer in the muggle world. Lord Black has promised to start making enquiries about finding a suitable match for me. I don't envy him the task, it's hard to marry off a girl everyone believes to be dead. When this arrangement started I took solace in the fact that one day I would be allowed to marry for love. I never thought about how much that match would cost me – the loss of a thousand years of history. My history. Evernesse history. You don't think about such things when you are young but now that I am older the weight of being the last one falls heavily upon me. My children will never know their true grandparents. They will never visit the estate and romp in the gardens that I made my home. I can only hope that this also means that they will never know the pain.
Harry closed the book with a thud. What the hell was this: Arranged marriages, estates? Her mother calling aunt Petunia "the muggle", it was true but still maybe there a reason for his aunt's hatred of her darling perfect sister. Now that he thought about it, aunt Petunia never talked about her parents willingly. If she did it was only to complain about how favored Lily was. What had happened there? Were they even sisters? His ruminations were cut short by a clicking lock.
Harry jumped up in surprise, reaching for his wand haphazardly. "Oh calm down would you?" His aunt said above him. Her hands held a bottle of water and a box of pills. "Were tired of your new habit of waking up at all hours of the night and screaming as if the devil is after you. I don't know what you're playing at but it ends now. Take this pill now and I'll be up later with the other one"
Harry backed away as she thrust a small pink pill at him. "I don't need any medicine. I – I'm fine honest." Unfortunately his aunt took advantage of his open mouth and tossed the pill in. Harry coughed as he felt it land at the back of his throat. Don't you dare, his aunt growled as he made to spit it out. "Swallow it". Harry swallowed, wincing at the bitter taste as it traveled down his throat. Honestly, between magic and not couldn't someone come up with medicines that didn't taste like crap? He took the bottle of water she offered gratefully.
She left the room before "Thank You" could leave his throat. The pill that Aunt Petunia had slipped him snuck up insidiously. One second, he felt fine the next he could barely feel his limbs to move them. He resolved to avoid actually swallowing the next pill his aunt came up with. Sleep made that resolve unnecessary.