Whoever said 'silence is golden' was full of crap.
OOO
13 Days. 311 Hours. hours, 18660 minutes, 1119600 seconds and...
Harry scrawled across the numbers with his pen, scratching them into oblivion, then pursing his lips, began to draw an immensely complicated lop-eared rabbit.
Wearing McGonagall's hat, Trawlney glasses and Snape's sneer.
This was soon discarded as Harry chucked the broken pen across the room, reaching up to draw shaky, ink covered fingers through his already messy, sweat stained hair. Leaning forward, Harry cradled his head in his hands, and began to speak.
"Parkers Root. Healing Properties when chopped. Poison when sliced."
His foot began to jiggle in place, his fingers digging into the carpet by his thigh's, threading through the loops of material.
"Valerian. Orange is good, purple is bad...unless one wants incurable blindness as an outcome."
Leaning back, head thumping solidly against the wall, Harry moved one hand down to cover his eyes.
"Red Ochre. Left to boil, administer immediately...fresh; dry before use."
He thumped his head back again. Just to hear the noise.
"Mandrix formula. Ingested will...will...ingested will..."
Harry began to laugh, a mirthless, bitter, slightly crazed cackle, which soon devolved into a distraught sob.
"Idiot!...I-Idiot...stupid, stupid...s-so stupid!"
His fisted hand thumped down on his thigh with a resounding 'thud' and Harry hissed through his teeth, knowing that the bruise forming would soon match the others around it in a stormy hue of blue or black.
"Ingested will cause infertility! Absorbed; an aid for...bruises!"
The mirthless chuckle returned, chokingly through the broken sobs, the fact that he was gasping for air not seeming to faze the boy.
"Shit. Damn, crap...F-fuck!"
Harry slumped over onto his side, curling into a tiny ball, arms tucked into his overly large shirt. Tears continuing to seep unchecked below closed lids, hands covering his ears, a low pained moan drawn from pressed lips, a hiccup accompanied the newest torrent of liquid pearls.
OOO
It had only been Vernon at the train station picking him up.
One ham fisted paw had clamped onto his shoulder in a bruising vice-like grip, and Harry hadn't been able to help the wince.
He'd had rushed a wistful goodbye as his Uncle had dragged him away. He'd smiled though, to allay Hermione's concern, and a small shake of his head had mellowed Ron's anger to resentment.
Vernon had been silent in the car. Harry had been grateful.
The vice like grip had returned once they pulled into the driveway, and Harry had meekly allowed himself to be tugged into the house and up the stairs- best not to rock the boat so early.
Then Vernon had propelled him bodily into Dudley's second bedroom and Harry heard the door slam and the bolts slide home.
He was thrown into memories of his summer before second year; the cat flap and the bars on the window.
He spun to protest- they'd been warned!
Only the door was closed, and there was no cat flap.
He turned slowly.
No-cat flap.
No bed. No drawers. No desk. No shelves. No bars. No window-
Just a bare room with a boarded over window.
Harry had shouted himself hoarse that afternoon.
No one had come.
Left alone, locked inside Dudley's old soundproofed bedroom, silence, silence and silence.
He was steadily going insane.
The first day, after Vernon had slammed the door closed and slid the bolts home, Harry had shouted, demanded and threatened. When no one came, he'd sighed and turned to slump against the far wall, sliding to the wooden floor. They'd come tomorrow, for now he could sleep.
The second day, he shouted. He'd pounded on the door with his fists, thrown himself bodily against the barrier. ANd he'd relaised that they weren't coming. to no avail. The door remained closed and no one had come.
Harry marked the passing of days by the muted glow that seeped through the cracks and edging of the boarded-up window- but lost track of the numbers, only aware of the turn from pitch black to dull grey.
x
OOO
He was half asleep. Just on the cusp of sinking further when the clock beside his bed chirped.
00:01am
He was 16 years old.
It almost broke him.
Tears were already welling, Harry unable to suppress the misery he felt, the emotions rife, seeking the surface.
16 and alone. Silent.
His hands slapped against his thighs again, hard, as hard as Harry could hit, and he revelled in the sound...noise...any noise was a distraction.
And then the small brown owl popped into existence in front of him.
If Harry hadn't known better he would have thought it apparated.
His hands stilled against his thighs, his eyes widened in unexpected ecstasy...company!
He stared at the bird, it stared back. Then it stuck out its leg and Harry noticed the scroll.
Shakily he untied it, one hand never leaving the first warm; breathing body he had felt in months, as he unravelling it to read.
Mr Harry J. Potter
It is with great pleasure that I wish you a joyful 16th birthday, and many happy returns.
As is customary in the Wizarding World, I hereby grant the 7 following rights to you:
1.Engage in sexual practises
2.Marry or Join
3.Father Children
4.Vote
5.Drink Alcoholic Beverages
6.Smoke
7.Apply for licences of extra-interest, i.e.- creature breeding
I am not able to grant you freedom of use of magic, nor has the magical signature tracker on your wand been removed, despite your being of age, as your magical guardian, Albus Dumbledore, not allowed it.
Please accept my fondest wishes, on behalf of the Ministry.
Simion Haldescion
Head of Magical Rights
The owl disappeared as suddenly as it had come, leaving the scroll in his hands, and a look of absolute distraught betrayal on his face.
His face paled, eyes glimmered and then he burst into noisy, heartbroken, body wracking tears, throwing himself face down on the bed.
OOO
He didn't notice that the owl wasn't all that disappeared.
A certain letter, with two scrawled lines of desperate truth, was also gone.
Scrabbling for the tattered remains of the broken quill he'd dug out from beneath his floorboards over a week ago, Harry scrawled across the bottom of the torn page fragment from one of Dudley's primary school paperback's that had somehow been missed when the room had been cleaned.
To...the one who would care the most.
This lonely silence is killing me.
The ink scribbled off in a messy thrust as he wrote the truth; something that he had been steadily denying.
He was dying.
As surely as if Voldemort was casting Aveda Kedavra.