Chapter Two

Aunt Petunia let him out of the cupboard early. It was just after dawn, his aunt in her fluffy pink robe and slippers, her curlers still rolled tight against her scalp.

"Get cleaned up," she said and threw one of Dudley's old shirts at him. Harry took it, staring up at her. Vernon and Aunt Petunia had been yet more casualties of the war. Dudley had succumbed to his own obesity years before the attacks, a victim of a massive stroke. His death had gutted Aunt Petunia, Harry remembered. It was one of the few times Harry had ever seen her cry. Harry had gone to the funeral, but stayed at the back, under a disillusionment charm. He hadn't wanted to upset them or cause a scene. Ginny had given birth to their second child by then and Harry had been able to imagine, just a little, the type of hell his aunt had been going through.

"Well, go," she pushed at his shoulder. "Get breakfast started before Vernon wakes."

"Yes, Aunt Petunia," Harry took the bright red shirt and stumbled to the downstairs bath. Blood was crusted under his nose and he had the beginnings of an impressive shiner. He used his old shirt to clean off the worst of the gunk; Aunt Petunia was peculiar about her towels and Harry had no wish to force down the castor oil his aunt liked to use as punishment.

Harry kept his head down as he started breakfast. The memory of his life with the Dursleys was something that Harry had done his best to forget. They had never wanted him, aside from the stipend Dumbledore gave them every month to make sure Harry was "welcome". He hadn't found out about that little fact until years later, as well. Their blood connection had kept him safe from the wizarding world, true. He had been protected from the likes of Rita Skeeter and the rest of the curious public as well. Unfortunately, there was nothing Dumbledore's money could do about the way his relatives had treated him inside the home.

As Harry remembered, Aunt Petunia had never, overtly, been horrid, aside from the few times she had spit vitriol over his mother. She intervened a few times before Uncle Vernon's 'punishments' could go too far. She had never checked Dudley's behavior, but the boy had been cut from the same cloth as his father, as Molly Weasley had liked to say. There was nothing Harry could do about them.

His aunt, however. Harry slid a glance over to the kitchen table. Aunt Petunia lived in a fantasy world where she was the queen bee of a family that adored her. Harry's presence was a reminder that her fantasy world was just that. If Harry could win an ally in his aunt, then perhaps he could make his remaining years in the Dursleys' household a little easier.

He hid a snort at the direction his thoughts had taken. Malfoy's influence, he could imagine Ron yelling. All the better for it, he could hear Draco counter. The two had managed to hold a stilted conversation before Hammerstein's invasions had begun. Harry felt his smile drop from his face.

Draco hadn't lasted long after Ron and Hermione. The Malfoy name had become too entwined with the Auror division and the Ministry. Draco, his wife and son had been Hammerstein's targets in the early attacks as well. The whole Auror division had been alerted when the Malfoy manor wards had gone down. They'd arrived too late, but Draco had not gone down without a fight. The house had been booby trapped, taking out all of the wizards Hammerstein had sent to take the place. Draco, his wife and Scorpius had been found in the ruins, serene and pale, dead by poison. Malfoy had known there was no way out and had written his own ending instead of suffering to the last. The bloody, selfish bastard. Harry shook his head as if he could shake away the thoughts.

Harry had cursed the man's grave for days, weeks, coming back after the long nights and skirmishes that painted nightmares for him to relive when he slept. Draco's ghost had never appeared, but Harry liked to think that the man was there, somewhere, arguing with him.

With some difficulty, Harry pulled his mind back to the present. He frowned. Or is it the past? He shrugged and finished up the last of the dishes. He ignored the faint tremor to his hands – he always had that reaction when he remembered the way Draco and Scorpius had died.

Stop thinking about it, he pushed the memory away and dried his hands on a dishtowel. Vernon was gone, off to work without a second glance at Harry. Dudley was off to a friend's house. That left Harry and Petunia alone in the kitchen.

Start slow, he reminded himself. "Anything else, Aunt Petunia?" He crossed to the kitchen table. The remains of breakfast had been cleared away, but Harry had yet to eat.

"No. Have some toast and go weed the garden," Petunia flicked her magazine open. "And don't make a mess this time."

"Yes, Aunt Petunia," Harry swallowed back disappointment and turned to make his toast. Small steps, he imagined Draco whispering. Lull her into trusting you. You have years of animosity between you. Slowly, slowly, Harry. A Slytherin never hurries into anything.

Harry stuffed his toast into his mouth at the memory. The pure blooded brat had been right about that, Harry scooted out the door before Petunia could reprimand him. Slytherins took forever to do anything.

Harry stretched out on the grass, arms folded behind his head, eyes closed as he soaked up the sun. The garden tools were forgotten at his side. Aunt Petunia's favorite chore was for Harry to weed the garden. The woman had box hedges and flowerbeds along the edge of their property that took almost an entire afternoon to weed. Harry recognized a few of the plants from his old-future Potions classes. How odd. He made a face, eyes still closed. Potions class.

In the light of day, Harry was able to puzzle out more of what had happened. Going back so far meant a lot of things, meant he had so many missed chances he could correct. Harry meant to get into Gryffindor again – how could he not, with Dumbledore watching him for any influence from Voldemort? Harry needed the protection that Gryffindor House would bring, but he also meant to cultivate more friendships outside of his House this time around.

Luna's help, as crazy as she could be, had been a huge asset in both the war with Voldemort and the later invasion by Hammerstein. Luna, her father and her husband had run the underground newspaper until they had been killed in an explosion that had wiped out half of Diagon Alley in one go. Terry Boot was another person Harry meant to seek out this time around. Boot had been an amazing Auror and a good friend later on in Harry's life. Terry had also been a…friend, later on, after his divorce and after the attacks had started. It had never been anything serious between them, more for the sharing of warmth and a way to remind them that they were alive when the attacks had gotten worse. Ginny had found out, somehow, about them and had thrown that in his face as yet another one of Harry's failings. Harry had never seen how or whom he was involved with was her business at that point. Still, it had shadowed what little happiness Harry had been able to steal before the world went to hell in a hand basket.

Harry rubbed at his face, trying to push the thoughts away. He and Ginny were a long way off in the grand scheme of things. He would figure that part out later. Adult thoughts like sex and children still made him feel weird, like a pervert, every time he caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror. Never mind that the woman he'd had children with was nine at the moment and, Merlin. He just had to stop thinking about it. His kids weren't dead, not yet. They were still in limbo, safe from whatever horror the future held for them. He just had to figure how to fix everything so they would stay safe. He pushed the grief that threatened to take over away with mental hands. He needed to concentrate.

What Harry needed to focus on at the moment was his memories of his first year at Hogwarts. He would be eleven soon. It was July seventh, which meant he had less than two weeks before his Hogwarts letters would start to arrive. He needed a way to talk to Aunt Petunia about them. The last thing Harry wanted was another row with Uncle Vernon about the letters. Harry had been sore for a week from the man's spanking. Sitting on the back of Hagrid's motorbike had been agony. Harry had been lucky the giant man had been so oblivious.

So it was with no little trepidation that Harry approached his aunt after the dishes had been washed and supper had been cleared from the table. Petunia liked to read in the kitchen while Uncle Vernon and Dudley watched television in the living room.

"Aunt Petunia?" Harry worried at his lower lip. "Can I talk to you?"

"No," she turned a page of her romance novel. "Go away."

"But…"

"I said no." It was followed by a sharp glance.

Harry held his ground. "It's about Hogwarts," he lowered his voice. He was rewarded by Petunia's start and her book slapping shut.

"What did you just say?" Her tone could have cut glass.

"Hogwarts," Harry met her furious glare.

"How did you learn about that filthy place?" Petunia surged up out of her chair, grabbing Harry's upper arm in a vise-like grip. She hauled them outside, where summer's lingering twilight still colored the sky. "You tell me this minute, boy. Who told you?"

"I'm going to get my letter soon," Harry avoided her question. "It's going to upset Uncle Vernon if it comes without warning."

Petunia's mouth was pinched down in an unflattering line. "There will be no such nastiness in my house, boy. I will not tolerate it, I will not –"

"They'll keep coming until you can't ignore them," Harry winced as her grip turned brutal. "Aunt Petunia, you're hurting me."

"I should have let Vernon beat this nonsense out of you, just like my father should have –," Petunia let Harry go with a push. "You're not going."

"Uncle Vernon can't beat it out of me, Aunt Petunia. Mum was a witch and I'm just like –," Harry's ears rang from the slap his aunt had just delivered. It was the first time he could remember her ever striking him.

"I have taken you into my house, put up with your freakish ways, your freakish looks, your eyes," Petunia seethed. "I will not have you back talk to me, young man."

"It will happen, Aunt Petunia," Harry stuck to his plan. Somewhere he imagined Draco shaking his head in disappointment. "Owls will fill the yard and hundreds of letters will invade the house. Unless," Harry stressed as her hand rose. "Unless you let me answer it and go to Hogwarts, they will never give you a moment's peace."

"You would dare to threaten me?" Petunia drew herself up.

"No, Aunt Petunia," Harry's cheek throbbed. "It's the simple truth. If you know now, Uncle Vernon won't be so upset. Dudley won't be frightened and the neighbors will never wonder why we have four hundred owls in the yard."

Harry watched as Petunia drew in a sharp breath, but then dropped her hand. "You and your miserable kind," she hissed. Her eyes were bright. "You're just like your mother."

"Thank you," Harry said.

Petunia's eyes narrowed. "See if I ever interfere between you and Vernon again, you miserable freak. You get nothing but toast and water until your precious letter comes." She struck out, quick as a viper and had a hold of his ear. "You are to clean the garage, the attic and the basement, young man, and I'll not hear a peep out of you. You will also take over the laundry, the…" Harry's list of chores grew as Petunia marched them inside and tossed Harry into the cupboard, throwing the lock with a loud crack.

Harry slumped onto his cot with a sigh. That, he supposed, could have gone better.

The letter, when it came, brought back memories. Harry held the heavy cream envelope, thumb brushing over the even script on the front. Harry had always wondered who wrote out the invitations every year. Were they done by hand? Did a professor write them out or were they done by spell? Harry used to console himself with the idea that Dumbledore had them created by using a spell, so then Harry could excuse the old wizard when none of the staff seemed to realize that Harry's room had been the Cupboard Under the Stairs that first year at school.

In his adult years, Harry had had to accept that at the very least Dumbledore had known at least some of the details about Harry's life at the Dursleys. Harry knew the older wizard had done little to interfere, believing it best for Harry to grow up as normal as possible, but a small part of him had never forgiven the man for leaving Harry there in the first place.

The resentment still burned. Especially on a slice of bread and only water to drink for days, not to mention the back breaking work of cleaning the garage and attic. Harry's blisters caught on the edge of the envelope. Aunt Petunia had had him scrubbing the cement in an attempt to clean off the oil spots it had accumulated.

In the kitchen, Harry could hear one of the few rows Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon indulge in. Aunt Petunia normally let Uncle Vernon have his way – she was much better at undermining his authority and doing things behind his back instead of standing up to him. Aunt Petunia was much more willing to persuade Uncle Vernon to her way of thinking – however, all of her tricks had failed at preparing her husband for the arrival of Harry's letter.

So, they were having a row. A loud, vicious row from the sound of it. Harry winced as Aunt Petunia's voice rose to a shout. Thank god Dudley's gone out, Harry sighed and leaned back against the wall. He'd be punching me for getting his parents mad at each other. He could hear their yelling right through the door to the kitchen.

"He is a child, Petunia. We can fix him. Give me a belt and a few days and I'm sure this will all…"

"No, Vernon."

"Petunia, I will not be dictated to in my own house!"

"They will come here, Vernon," Petunia hissed. "They are all freaks, in freak clothing, with freakish ways. The neighbors will see, Vernon. We will be the talk of the neighborhood!"

"That does not follow that we should let the boy go off to that school of his! Petunia, no. I won't have it. What if they teach the boy?"

"Good! Then he won't accidentally break my dishes anymore."

"Petunia!"

"He will go, Vernon."

"He bloody well will not!"

"My sister set the house on fire once," Petunia's tone was like ice. "She threw a tantrum and got her way because her precious powers scared my parents. I won't have the boy's freak powers ruining my home, Vernon. I won't have it! He will go to that school and he will learn how to control that freakish power of his!"

"This is all because your sister was a freak!" Vernon erupted. "If the bloody bint hadn't gone and gotten herself pregnant, this never would have happened!"

"This isn't my fault!"

"You and your damn family!"

"I'm nothing like them!" Harry heard the slap of Petunia's hand against Vernon's cheek.

"Do you see what this boy is doing to our home?" Vernon's roar shook the house. "And now you want to cater to the whims of these freaks?"

"Better he be gone for the school year than put up with him here. Look at what he's made me do!" Petunia's voice wavered. Harry thought he heard the threat of tears. They were Petunia's weapon of last resort. Harry knew his Uncle Vernon couldn't stand the sight of his wife crying. He caved every time.

The whipping Harry got was as vicious as the one he remembered from his first time around. But in the end, Harry was allowed to respond to the letter and allowed to go to London the day before the train to Hogwarts was supposed to leave to get his school things.

It was a victory, of sorts, Harry acknowledged as he lay curled up on his cot. At least Vernon hadn't shipped them out to a shoddy island in the middle of the sea. He fell asleep to the throb of the welts running down his rear end and legs. He dreamt of Sirius' flying motorcycle and Hagrid's deep laugh.

On August thirtieth, Aunt Petunia dropped him off at the closest intersection to the Leaky Cauldron Harry could remember. He had a small case for his clothes and some pounds shoved in his pocket. The money had been grudgingly given and it had taken all of Harry's persuasion for the last few weeks to wiggle it out of his aunt. He had no idea if he could rent a room at the Leaky Cauldron, let alone pay for it with muggle money, but he had to try.

Harry's fringe was long enough to hide the scar on his forehead, something he was grateful for as he pushed his way up to Tom and got a room. It never ceased to amaze Harry how much the wizarding world got away with – he couldn't imagine a muggle child ordering a room and being allowed to pay for it on vacancy. Harry decided to count on his luck while he could. He would certainly need it for the next day.