Set after OoTP, non HBP or DH compliant.
No ownership here.
Prologue
Without the cool breeze of the open window, the heat in the second story room would have been unbearable. Even with the window open Harry lay strewn out on top of the ratty blanket that adorned his bed. He had willing skipped dinner that evening in order to finish up a number of chores his uncle had ordered him to complete. Years previous, Harry had been bothered by the slave labor he provided for his ungrateful family. This year, the subtle growling in his stomach was more easily ignored in favor for keeping his hands busy.
Those chores were finished now and Harry was once again reliving every detail of his Godfather's face before it was swallowed by the black, liquid cloth of the veil. If only he hadn't reacted to the visions sent by Voldemort. 'If only' whispered constantly in the back of his thoughts. To hide from it he'd completed every homework assignment six times over. Hermione would be proud if he'd reply to her letters and tell her. Even without response she and Ron managed to write every three or four days. Ron never got angry by the lack of response. If Harry was capable of thinking that particular phenomenon through he would have come to the conclusion that Hermione was brow beating their red headed friend into keeping composure in the light of Harry's recent loss and emotional instability.
It was great to hear from his friends though the most recent letters lay unopened on his desk. Having never had friends in his childhood, he found it hard to turn to his friends for comfort.
If only he could. 'If only,' echoed through his mind as he turned his face towards the window welcoming the wind on his face and stared out into the night sky.
If only he'd tried harder at occlumency.
It haunted him. Haunted him to the point where every living moment was spent trying to clear his mind. With his hands washing dishes, or cleaning the windows, it was easier. When he lay in bed with nothing to do that it was the hardest. Yet he managed. Every night it was starting to get easier. With his single minded focus his body was beginning to waste away. He'd lost all the weight he'd gained over the school year, and circles under his eyes only got bigger and darker.
It appeared that a half person lay now perfectly still on the bed. A half person that did all the house cleaning, maintenance, and cooking that the Dursleys could ever need. For all that they thought it was wonderful that he was finally picking up his weight around the house, they were terrified that they'd finally succeeded at the goal they had reached for, for years ago. Smothering the magic out of him would protect them. That was what they had decided that first night they had found him on their back porch. Now that the light was gone out of brilliant green eyes, they worried. What would the freaks do to them if the Wizard Golden Boy lost his magic? The freaks always came for the boy before the end of the summer but it was starting to get late into August.
Every night when they went to bed, they hoped to wake up in the morning to find the boy just gone. He no longer had nightmares, either that or he wasn't sleeping. It mattered little to them. The Dursleys just knew that he was deadly quiet at night and when they came down stairs in the morning he'd already made breakfast. Every day of quiet subservience made them more nervous.
Maybe if he'd show a bit of that rebellious spirit that they'd argued with every summer since he was 11 they'd be comforted. He never talked back, and he never stepped a foot out of line of their impressive list of rules. They never thought they'd be so scared to see him exactly like they'd always wanted him: obedient, docile, and completely empty.
It was like he had lost his rebellion but what they couldn't see was how he'd channeled it. That rebellion had saved lives in the past but Harry recognized the mistakes he'd made taking that rebellion too far. He needed to be able trust the adults around him enough that he could assimilate their information into his own plans. He couldn't trust adults explicitly, because they spent too much time 'trying' to protect him. He needed to be able to do things his way but take their concerns into consideration. Perhaps even protect them. Having considered this thoroughly all summer, Harry cleared his mind to the cold, empty place that allowed him peace.
Within that chilly reality Harry had created for himself, he hardly realized when the outside began to cool. The part of him that was vaguely aware of his physical being dismissed it as a stronger breeze than normal and told his limbs to curl in and to turn his face from the cold. To Harry he was turning away from the outside world. Away from all the flames he'd longed for and worshipped when finally found within their comfort. He'd been consumed by them and allowed himself to get burned. The first thing you do to heal a burn is to put ice on it and that's exactly what Harry had done. Now that inner ice was slowly starting to make him shiver.
The chill was clinging to his skin and creeping into his blood. Harry was suddenly jolted to reality by his lungs clutching in on themselves and expelling the air against his will. Breathless and gasping he had lost all ability to inhale. Like apparition, he felt like he was being squeezed to fit through a small tube, but the cold made it a million times worse.
Harry tried to push himself into a sitting position, he had to move, had to get to his wand. There was something magical happening here and he had to protect himself. His arms were slow to respond and tremors wracked his feeble attempts. It took him several tries but eventually he managed to crawl to the end of the small bed. An eternity of agony wrapped itself around him as Harry desperately reached for his wand under the floor board. Finally getting half of his body to the hard wood, Harry barely wretched open the plank and gripped the slender wood.
The small exertion was exhausting and now that Harry had his wand he couldn't speak past the panting of his breath let alone wave his arm. In an effort of desperation he reached for that place that warmed when he performed any magic. A small spark lit itself in his chest and he fed it desperately with the last of his energy. As it got bigger, molten flame poured out to his limbs. Arching back between the battle of elements within his body, Harry began to convulse. Seizing half on the bed, his upper body flailed against the hard wood of the floor.
The cold gripped his skin and refused to release in despite of the warmth worming through his veins. Pumping fire and ice alternately, the pain in his heart began to eat at the corner of his vision, pulling him into complete dark agony. Squeezed so tight by the cold Harry felt like his head would burst from pressure. The scream that ripped through his throat shattered the nothingness into white stars swimming over the clutter strewn across the floor.
Seconds later the cold and pressure dissipated leaving Harry completely exhausted half on the floor. A game controller under his head prompted him to attempt movement but slithering over about an inch was the best he could do. It took him nearly a minute but finally he managed to get himself in a mostly clear area of floor.
The floor had always been covered in Dudley's clutter but from his angle it appeared to have increased one hundred times in the last ten minutes. This phenomenon was quickly forgotten in light of the door jerking open to reveal a furious Vernon Dursley.
"What the hell do you—" Mr. Dursley choked on his words after flicking on the light. Confusion flashed across his features as he eyed the phantom of a boy shivering in his son's second bedroom. "Harry?"
"Uncle Vernon?" Harry's croaked and looked up to find Mr. Dursley with a look of genuine concern on his face.
"Petunia!" He bellowed in a fashion that he usually saved for calling for Harry from across the house. "Harry's in our house! Petunia! Call that sister of yours!"
The mammoth man in front of Harry took a minute to catch his breath and then his face contorted into a shape and color Harry was much more familiar with. The sheer fury and obnoxious purple the man was turning to was a strange sort of comfort for Harry after everything that had happened. Once he began to yell again all that familiar comfort drained quickly away.
"You think you can just break into our house boy. You've been missing since June and you're going to come steal from me? I don't think so." Vernon managed to get his girth across the room with surprising speed before yanking a limp Harry up by his still sensitive arm. "You better hope your mother picks up and is willing to come get you because I'm going to call the police if she isn't."
"My mother?" Harry gasped between shallow breaths. "I didn't break in. I live here."
"Live here!?" Vernon hollered turning a shade of purple Harry had long ago learned to associate with danger. "You've been living up here the whole time? You been sneaking down and stealing our food too? Why I ought'a—"
As his uncle bodily lifted him off the ground, Harry went perfectly limp—a response from years of being thrown and locked into the cupboard under the stairs. Had he been less exhausted he may not have resorted to a childhood survival tactic.
"No. I haven't. Uncle Vernon, I'm sorry I screamed!" Harry begged barely aware of what he was doing.
Vernon Dursley stared into the panicked, dull shade of his nephew's eyes and loosed his grip startled. Harry fell to the ground like a rag doll.
"I'll never make another peep. Nothing. Please," The boy continued on barely noticing his release. For a boy just turned 16, Harry was little more than a wraith. Bone thin with little to no muscle or fat, he appeared shorter than when Vernon had seen him last Christmas. Every year Petunia and Lily insisted that their families get to together once to remind everyone how little they enjoyed each others' company. Harry had never been as tall as Dudley but Vernon swore that he was larger than the child in front of him.
"Vernon, what's wrong with him?" Petunia pointedly asked from the doorway; Dudley standing behind her shoulder.
Vernon met his wife's eyes and saw the concern etched across her features. Whatever had turned his self assured, obnoxious nephew into this timid teen at his feet was not something Mr. Dursley wanted to deal with. He wanted Harry out of his house as soon as possible. Let the freaks deal with his problems. When he finally spoke it was with a frank honesty that startled the boy. "I don't know. Call Lily and get her over here as soon as possible."