Title: Change of Heart
Rating: M (R)
Genre: Romantic, Angst, Hurt/Comfort
Pairings: HPDM, BZDM, HGRW, LMSS, other minor pairings
Warnings: Explicit Abuse, Violence, Slash, Mentions of Incest, AU (non HBP compliant)
Beta: None for now. Actually, if you wanted to help me with my awful grammar, it would be most helpful.
Feedback: It would be very appreciated, especially since English isn't even my first language...
"Words" Talking
'Words' Thoughts
Words Parseltongue
-Words- Flashbacks, memories and dreams
Harry's green eyes flew open when Hedwig hooted. For a split second he could have sworn his heart stopped beating. He wheeled around in the bed, staring at Hedwig's cage with a glare. If Vernon woke up he would have hell to pay for disturbing his sleep once again.
Immediately after that panicked thought he realized that it couldn't have been Hedwig: she was trying yet again to deliver one of his letters to Remus. On the windowsill sat a big brown owl, staring at him with a disapproving look and a formal-looking envelope tied to its leg.
It snapped it's beak again, hooting even more loudly than before.
Harry jumped up the bed, cursing under his breath when he heard Vernon grunt from the other room. He quickly snatched the letter from the owl, shooing once he had successfully untied it from the owl's leg.
Wondering who was writing to him at this ungodly hour, especially since no one had bothered to write to him, not even to let him know what was going on in the wizarding world now that Fudge had to admit to Voldemort's return, he watched the bird glide under the moonlight. It was funny how no one, not even Ron and Hermione, had sent him anything. At first he had thought they might be back at Grimmauld Place and too occupied with making the house even halfway clean, but as the months passed and he found himself completely alone, he realized nobody was going to write.
His birthday, not even two weeks ago, had been the most horrible since he had turned eleven. He had been starved, beaten and hadn't even been let out to relieve himself. Only then did he understand exactly how much he had relied on his friends to send him something to eat.
He wouldn't admit it to anyone, but he had actually cried himself to sleep that night, wondering what on earth he could have done to anger his so-called friends so much that they wouldn't even send a card.
When the owl was nothing but a distant spot in the night, he turned his attention to the incredibly thick envelope in his hands.
A quick glance at the digital clock on the night stand - one Dudley had just thrown away, since he had received three clocks just for his birthday - told him it was early morning, too early for any type of mail. He let himself fall back on the bed, wincing as the too big T-shirt scraped against the tender skin on his back, where not even a week ago he had received a beating for not having controlled 'that damn bird of his', and stifled a yawn.
The letter bore the Gringotts' seal. He didn't realize it, but a small frown creased his forehead: in the five years he had known he was a wizard, the wizarding bank had never sent him any personal letters and he couldn't think of any reason they would want to contact him right now.
Giving in to curiosity he tore the wax and started reading.
Dear Mr. Potter,
We are writing in regard to your late godfather's will. As you might know, upon his death Sirius Black named you a honorary Black and his only heir. Therefore, you are now in possess of Vault 711 and all the Black Manors around England. We have enclosed a copy of your godfather's will, so you could look over your new possessions when you have time.
We will be soon sending an owl with Sirius Black's more personal belongings, as well as the ring that states you are the head of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.
Hoping you are well,
Gringotts Head Goblin
Harry stared, bewildered, at the letter which had fallen on his lap, his fingers too numb to hold it up. He couldn't believe his eyes. Since when was he a honorary Black? Heck, he didn't even know such a title existed! Sirius had crossed the Veil almost three months ago, how come he hadn't heard about this sooner?
He turned over the paper, finding himself in front of another one, neatly written on expensive parchment with the Black crest on top. He spluttered wildly when he realized just how much money the Blacks owned.
'No wonder Sirius bought me a Firebolt in third year', he thought, 'with all the gold in there I could buy the best brooms on the market for all the Quidditch teams at Hogwarts and it wouldn't even make a dent on the whole sum'.
He remembered Malfoy had bought brooms for the Slytherin team in second year. Back then he had thought Lucius Malfoy was crazy for spending all that money, but the Malfoys were as old as the Blacks and now he understood it was nothing for them.
His sleep-deprived brain chose that moment to shut off, his eyelids drooping as he leaned his head against the pillow and fell sound asleep. The letter fell of his bed as he tossed around in bed, reliving once again Sirius' death in his sleep, and fell to the floor without a sound.
He was roused from sleep by a shrill scream that undoubtedly belonged to Aunt Petunia. This time it took him more time to actually manage to open his eyes and look around, trying to find the source of the ruckus, while wondering why it seemed to be unusually bright in his dark room.
His aunt stood next to his bed, the cat flap they had installed in second year swinging slowly, the door to his room open and a streak of sun coming in from it. Her face was livid as she stood stiffly, holding a crumpled piece of paper with both hands. As soon as she realized he was awake she shrieked again, the sound almost shattering his eardrums with sheer intensity.
"Petunia, dear, is everything all right?" Vernon's gruff voice asked from downstairs.
Harry immediately paled, dreading what would happen to him if the letter held by his aunt was what he thought he was. He racked his brain trying to remember if he had put the letter from Gringotts away before falling asleep, but he wasn't able to.
"Vernon, come here right now!" Petunia answered, starting to back away from him with a disgusted scowl that didn't do anything to improve her bony face.
Harry desperately wanted to get away before his uncle managed the difficult feat of removing his enormous rear from the couch and climbing the stairs, but the thunderous sound of steps on the wood made his blood run cold, effectively making him unable to move.
When Vernon made it to his room, puffing and sweating, Petunia handed him the letter. Harry stopped breathing, his mind going over a list of possible punishments he would receive. The least they would do was lock him in his room until summer was up, feeding him with only the strict necessary for survival and letting him out only once, in the morning, to use the bathroom. However, he doubted they would be so merciful.
He forced himself to swallow as Vernon's face turned an interesting shade of puce before gradually morphing into a deep purple. Then he looked up, straight into his nephew's eyes, and the seething rage Harry could see etched on his features scared him more than anything he'd ever seen, and that included Voldemort.
"How could you? We raised you, taking food out of our own son to feed you, a worthless freak," he spat the word out like it was acid before gesturing wildly to the room around him, "We gave you a place to live and an education, and this is how you repay us? Hiding mountains of money from us and letting us believe you were a poor orphan?" the atypical calm in Vernon's voice led Harry to believe things were much worse than what he had originally thought.
But it wasn't until his uncle pleasantly addressed Petunia, telling her Dudders might want another serving of bacon and making her leave the room with a disdainful sniff, that he understood exactly what he was going to be subjected to.
Harry inched back on the bed when Uncle Vernon shut the door and came closer, feeling incredibly small. It was in these moments he realized just how fragile his body was, how easily bones were broken, bruises formed.
For a split second he wondered if he should start begging for dear life. And then his ability to think was cut off by the sight of Vernon unbuckling his belt. His mind blanked, leaving his dull eyes staring at the scene in front of his.
He wasn't going to rape his, was he? No, surely his uncle wasn't so enraged to commit an act that would have him delivered to jail before he could count to ten. The only thought of being violated was enough to make him jump off the bed and inch towards the wall, trying to put as much distance as possible between them. Uncle Vernon smiled grimly, holding his belt and thinking with satisfaction that the freak would remember this beating for the rest of his life.
His uncle's punch hit him on the cheekbone, making him stumble backwards and hitting the wall. He was already trying to avoid letting a groan out, knowing it would only make things worse. He didn't even notice the kick aimed to his shin until it was to late, too preoccupied with the stinging in his face and thinking of a way to put some ice on it afterwards, or it would swell so much he wouldn't be able to open his eye. The blooming pain in his leg made him slide soundlessly to the floor, bringing his knees to the chest in an effort to protect his organs.
The shower of kicks landed on his back, making him want to arch back against the pain, but he knew he couldn't. Harry knew Vernon enough to know that if he lay on his back his uncle would aim for his stomach. He could take a few broken bones, he'd had his more than fair share during the years, but internal damage would do what Voldemort hadn't managed with magic. And he liked living, thank you very much.
By the time Uncle Vernon tired of his sick game Harry was sure he had at least two broken ribs. He was so busy assessing the damage he didn't see the the silver buckle of the belt breaking his skin until a scream left his mouth. He writhed with pain as the cold metal met skin, making a rivulet of blood climb down his shoulder and pool on the wooden floor.
The next blow was clearly aimed to his face, but he ducked with his last energies. The belt struck against his shoulder blades, making his teeth clack together with the force of the impact. The leather left a bad stinging and, while it didn't cut him, it hurt like hell. It knocked the breath out of him, so he could only pant and utter strangled moans every time leather and metal struck him.
Harry didn't even notice Uncle Vernon exiting him room and locking the door less than half an hour later, too tired to even move to the bed.
He lay curled up on the floor, thanking his lucky stars he was still conscious and waiting patiently for sleep to claim him. He wished Hedwig was here with him. While she couldn't bring him any material comfort, her presence was more than enough to keep him sane. He sighed, wincing as the movement brought a sharp wave of pain to his lungs.
He could only hope someone would come to rescue him soon, or the wizarding world would soon mourn his death.
The 1st of September couldn't have come fast enough, in Harry's opinion. The last two weeks had forced him to rethink the levels of pain he could endure. The Dursleys had only let him out once, a few days prior, to go to Diagon Alley. The trip had been horrible. Not only were most of the wizards glancing at him warily and stepping away for reasons unknown to him (he wasn't receiving any newspapers in fear the owls would wake his uncle), but he had also had to cast the strongest wandless glamour he knew on himself, draining him of the little energies he had left. As if that wasn't enough Dudley had pushed him down the stairs, and walking around with a sprained ankle pretending to be fine had almost made him break down and cry for the pain.
And now, standing between platforms nine and ten of King's Cross, he took a deep breath. For some reason he had the strange foreboding this year would be less than enjoyable.
Harry double-checked his glamour before striding (well, as comfortably as he could stride with a sprained ankle) towards the barrier between the two platforms.
As usual the platform nine and three quarters was alive with chatter and laughter. He couldn't help feeling a twinge of unease when he saw parents take a look at him and warn their children to stay away from him, without even having the good grace to lower their voices so he didn't hear them. Harry walked through the other students and their families, looking for redheads in the midst of the confusion. He wanted to ask Ron what the hell had happened to him.
He was more than puzzled at the silence of the Weasleys. At the end of last year they had, like every year, made plans to see each other during the summer, but then he hadn't received any invitations.
It didn't take him long to find the Weasleys. He walked towards them with a smile, seeing Hermione hug Mrs. Weasley, but stopped short when he heard Ron's mother talking to them.
"Now, remember, I don't want you talking to Potter. He's dangerous, almost got you killed last year." Molly reminded whilst hugging Ginny.
Ron rolled his eyes, snaking an arm around Hermione, "Don't worry, mum, we're not going to talk to him. It's not like we enjoy speaking to Death Eaters in training."
Harry was sure something in his heart broke the second he heard those words spoken by the ones he considered his extended family. Feeling his resolve start to break and angry tears prickling his eyes, he quickly made his way towards the train.
He felt even more infuriated when children ogled at him and parents whispered accusations between them. This was far worse than last year, when the Daily Prophet had painted him as a madman with a reserved bed at St. Mungo's, and he couldn't help but wonder what had changed during the summer to make his predicament worse while looking for an empty compartment.
He found one in what was Slytherin territory, but he couldn't find himself to care about them as he let himself fall back against the seat and cast a locking charm on the door.
Harry closed his tearful eyes, angrily wiping away the one that had managed to fall down his cheek before taking out his new Transfiguration book to distract himself from the happy goodbyes going on outside.
A/N: Hi! Not quite sure what I should say, actually...
This is my first fanfiction, so I decided to play it safe and go for a cliché. As maybe you've read English is not my first language, and it's kind of difficult to write because I have a limited knowledge. So if you could kindly leave me a review telling me if it's okay or if it sucks, it would really make my day. And if you have any constructive criticism, I'll happily take it! Oh, I really need a beta for my awful English, so if anyone wants to step forward...
In the next chapter:
Harry meets his favourite Slytherins and the Sorting Hat speaks up.