Harry Potter and the Greater Good
Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing of the Potter universe, not its characters nor its world. All rights reserved by JK Rowling.
Warning: Contains Child Abuse (Age 16) and mentions of it at younger ages. Will eventually be slash/Snarry but not explicit or detailed. OP Harry. Canon up to and including Order of Phoenix, AU after.
Chapter One
July 31st 12am
Hedwig nudged Harry's hand reprovingly, nipping gently until he loosened his grasp on that cursed piece of glass. He could feel the blood pooling in the palm of his hand and dripping through his fingers, and for a moment he felt alive, but he knew that his owl would become more and more distraught if he continued. Letting out a weary sigh, he tucked the glass into the pocket of the overly large jumper and reached out to calm his familiar with his good hand.
After a few moments, he got shakily to his feet and carefully began to pace the room, trying to cling on to that calm quiet place in his mind. He was so tired, so goddamn tired of everything, and he just wanted it all to be over. He could do nothing about the constant monologue that were his thoughts ('I killed Sirius. I have to kill Voldemort. I'm scared. I want to die. I deserve this. God but it needs to end. Sirius…') and the only time he came anywhere close to peace was when he was hurt, when he fled to that white room in his mind and shut everything else out. He had always been able to count on the Dursleys for that, but it was getting harder and harder to find his way there. His right hand had closed on that piece of glass every night now, reopening the wounds again and again, and goddamn it but he was so tired!
He stilled as he sensed… something. It was like a slight breeze wrapping itself around him, making the hair on his arms stand up on end. He started to frown, and then winced and quickly smoothed his expression. If he had been able to see, he would have noticed that the streetlamps of Privet Drive were quietly flickering out one by one. Instead, he found himself holding his breath and waiting… waiting…
A knock on the door.
"WHO THE BLOODY HELL IS HERE AT THIS TIME OF NIGHT?"
Harry flinched at his uncle's roar and without even realising it, he retreated into the corner of the room, making himself as small as possible. A raised voice from the Dursleys meant only one thing for Harry, and that one thing was pain. It took a few minutes of deep breathing for his heart to calm and the trembles to stop, but he quickly realised that nobody normal would be knocking at this time of night. It had to be about him.
He wondered if Voldemort had finally found him. If his Death Eaters were even now forcing their way into the small house intent only on the destruction of Harry Potter, and was a bit uncomfortable when he felt a jolt of relief at the thought. Then he came to his senses; Death Eaters would not knock on the damn door.
It had to be someone from the Order.
He realised that there had been no other sound from downstairs for quite a few minutes and then a familiar voice broke the silence.
"Ah, Mr. Dursley," Albus Dumbledore spoke cheerfully, "and Petunia. It's lovely to see you again."
No response.
"Shall I assume you have temporarily lost your voice and have invited me inside your lovely home?" the headmaster spoke politely and seemed amused, but Harry had again frozen at the words 'lost your voice'. Dumbledore was here for him, was here to take him to the Order, or to the Weasleys. Dumbledore would not be intimidated. He would see. He would know.
Harry's heart leapt into his throat. For the first time in weeks, he actually felt something, and that something was complete and utter terror.
"He's not going back!" Vernon's bluster was ruined by the horrified squeak of his voice, "he- he-"
"He says he's done with the lot of you!" There was his Aunt, but she didn't sound any more confident than her husband. For once his family were right. He did not want to go with the headmaster, and there was no way in hell that he could be seen like this. He'd felt the familiar tingle over his skin the instant he recognised Dumbledore's voice, and knew that his usual glamour was in place. Unfortunately, it wouldn't be enough this time. He would be unable to move without revealing his lack of sight, and even if he just stood there, he was unable to speak.
He would know. They would all know.
"Oh, I'm sure it's just a misunderstanding." Dumbledore again, but he sounded colder now and closer. "If you are unwilling to ask your nephew to speak with me, then I must insist that I go to him myself."
Harry finally broke free from his stupor and threw himself onto the floor, scrabbling around desperately for that one loose floorboard under his bed. As usual, he had stashed a few items there at the beginning of the holidays and so he quickly snatched up a piece of parchment and a quill. His hands were shaking as he removed the stopper from the vial of ink and he mouthed a curse as it splashed over his hand. He had seconds now; he heard the squeak of the third stair and knew the old man was coming. He wrote quickly, blindly, hoping that the parchment wasn't one of his earlier letters and that his trembling hadn't made his writing illegible, and then he shoved the note under the door just as the shadow of long robes stopped by the cat flap.
He held his breath and stilled, listening with everything he had. He heard a soft rustle, a little 'Hm' of surprise and knew that his letter had been picked up. He cringed.
Headmaster.
I will be remaining here with my family. I have no wish to speak to yourself or anyone else again.
Harry Potter
He wanted to groan. He knew it was bloody useless. And yet as the silence stretched, a small bubble of hope rose within him. Maybe he would listen. Maybe he would believe it. Maybe he would just go away.
"Alohomora."
So much for that.
Harry scrambled back to his feet as he heard the seven locks clicking open one by one. He stood, rooted to the spot, as the door was opened with its usual loud creak and he felt the presence of Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts, mere inches away. He stood still as a statue. He couldn't see the man's expression; it was probably just that grandfatherly disappointment that had hurt Harry so much in the past, and he couldn't see the lit wand that was swept quickly around the room then directed at him.
"Harry?"
He could feel the headmaster step closer, was unable to stop the violent flinch when the man settled his hand on his shoulder. Dumbledore seemed alarmed and instantly dropped his hand.
"Harry, did you write this?" the old man was almost whispering and he sounded even closer; Harry guessed he was leaning down, trying to look him in the eye. "Why is there blood all over this, Harry?"