The muggle caretaker was listening in the hallway, again. He'd been staring through his curtains at the dark graveyard when he saw the light, turned off his kettle, and dragged the rusted key from the hook beside the door. The house should be empty – cold and dead and empty. But there, in the upper room, two men whispered together. Two men and … something else. Something unnatural. The size of a babe, it was. But this was no babe. This … thing made Frank's skin crawl and his gut lurch. It hissed and the others, those two, pretended to hear words.
Frank's lips thinned. He'd get to his phone. Call the authorities. Someone to take them all away.
The snake startled him – huge thing, belonged in a zoo. And then the scraggly, ratty one was facing him. Hauling the chair around. And he saw the bald, naked thing, the unholy mass of skin and bone, red eyes glaring. The thing spoke – two words, two familiar words –
Harry lurched upright, the room around him bathed in green light. He almost missed the sound from down the hall – his heart beat hard, pounding in his ears – but the growling voice and the sound of the locks on his bedroom door falling open one by one finally registered. His feet tangled in the sweaty sheets as he tried to get out of bed, to get upright, and he sprawled on the floor just as his bedroom door was flung open. The light from the hallway was eclipsed by his uncle's broad form.
"What the hell do you think you're doing, boy?"
One meaty hand gripped Harry's t-shirt and hauled him to his feet. His uncle leaned down, spitting mad. "Waking us all up night after night with your bloody yelling! I have an important meeting in the morning, you freak! A meeting that would put food on your table and clothes on your back! But, oh, no, you don't care one whit about that, do you?"
Harry's teeth rattled as his uncle shook him, his thoughts still trapped by the images of the vivid dream. "No. I mean, I don't –"
Uncle Vernon shoved Harry and he fell half on the floor and half on his bed, his elbow cracking hard against the frame, the skin on the small of his back peeling away as it scraped on the metal.
"I'm warning you, boy." Vernon closed his fist in Harry's face. "If you make one more sound tonight – or any night – I will make you regret it. Do you hear me? Do you?!"
"I – " How could Harry promise that? He'd tried to stay awake, or to tire himself out so thoroughly that he'd sleep straight through for once. But nothing worked. The dream came back - always the same one. The caretaker. The graveyard. The green light.
His uncle lunged forward and took Harry by the hair, pulling him up to shove his huge face into Harry's. "What's that you say, boy? 'I'm sorry, Uncle Vernon? I've been a wretched, arrogant brat and I'll change my ways?' Yes, that's what I thought you said."
Vernon held on for another moment, teeth bared, until Harry stuttered out an agreement. Disgusted, he flung Harry onto his bed, the frame smacking against the wall.
"Now. You will be silent for the rest of the night. Or you I will give you something to scream about, boy, make no mistake."
Harry nodded, swallowing in his dry and aching throat. But Vernon didn't waste any more time – he turned his back and swung the bedroom door shut behind him. As the locks snicked shut, Harry laid flat on his back, one fist pressed against the throbbing scar on his forehead. Sweaty, sore, his back aching and his head pounding, Harry tried to smother his anger. Anger. Disgust. Shame. Dread. Fear. The emotions rushed through him like fiery rivers, burning their way through his spirit.
The old caretaker was dead, struck by the curse Harry knew from his earliest memories. The same curse that had stolen Harry's mum and dad, that had ripped into Harry's head and left an ugly scar. The same curse that had reduced Voldemort to that … thing … in the chair. Bile pushed its way up Harry's throat, but he clenched his teeth and swallowed it all down – all the anger, the hurt, the loss, the pain, the disgust. It piled up inside him, demanding a way out, demanding Harry scream or curse or weep.
He stretched out, arching his back, legs extended and his hands gripping the thin mattress beneath him until he thought his skin might rip. Eyes wide open, head back, Harry screamed silently at the deaf ceiling. Curses wrestled through his mind, frustration fueling their struggles to escape – to find a target, the pain of his uncle's delicate handling lending rage to the mix. His vision blurred, the air around him heating, vibrating.
No. A brush of icy wings against his raging spirit brought a warning. Accidental magic would get him, at best, a beating. At worst? Another ministry letter threatening expulsion. The cool sensation swept through the ratcheting anger and out, away from the core of Harry's fury – acting like a pressure valve suddenly opened. Harry fell back on the bed, muscles slack, tears starting at the corners of his eyes.
He didn't know how long it took for his breathing to steady, for his heart to stop racing, or the buzzing in his ears to diminish. His eyelids were heavy, drooping, but he jerked them open. He couldn't fall back to sleep. Not now. Not tonight. Uncle Vernon was probably waiting, listening, hoping for Harry to make the smallest noise so he could come back in and – and have an excuse to use his fists.
Harry flopped over onto his side, wincing at the pain in his back. He had to figure this out – figure out a way to sleep without dreaming. Maybe he could nap more during the day and stay awake at night. If only he wasn't locked in his room – a room right down the hall from his aunt and uncle's. If he could do magic during the summer and unlock the locks on his door, he could lay on the couch downstairs. Or cast a Silencio spell over himself. But his wand was locked away with his invisibility cloak and his books and he'd sent Hedwig to Ron's with his reply about the Quidditch World Cup.
He stared into the gloom, his eyes scratchy and dry. He had to stop dreaming – dreaming about the old muggle man and the dusty house in the graveyard. Dreaming about Wormtail and that other man and the disgusting wraith that sat in the chair and cast the green-hued curse. He had to stop the recurring waves of despair and anger, the quaking fear and his absolute need for vengeance, the dark depression that dogged his footsteps around Little Whinging and the petrifying anxiety. He could hardly eat even what little the Dursleys were grudgingly supplying him, his long-in-coming growth spurt thinning him to gauntness. Fists tight against his chest, Harry dredged up and dumped scenario after scenario, looking for an answer – he had to stop waking up the Dursleys, stop the circle of sleep-deprivation and loss of control that led to his emotional outbursts.
Harry needed help.
He jerked upright, sitting on the edge of his bed, his head hanging. Where had that thought come from? Help was one thing Harry had learned never to count on. There had been no help for him at primary, where Dudley and his aunt and uncle had poisoned the well long before Harry stepped into a classroom with his cousin's giant clothes hanging off of him. There'd been no help in the neighborhood when Dudley and his gang had chased Harry down and beaten him, or when Aunt Petunia worked him mercilessly in the hot summer sun.
Hogwarts hadn't been any better. Head in his hands, he pressed his palms into his eyes. None of the adults had impressed Harry with their eagerness to help him, or even to listen. Not Dumbledore. Not McGonagall. Even Hagrid made more trouble for Harry than he helped him out of. He snorted. It was Snape who had followed him and Ron and Hermione out to the Whomping Willow and stood between Harry and his friends and a feral werewolf. Of course, that wasn't so much about helping Harry as denouncing Remus and capturing – or killing – Sirius.
Sirius. Sirius would want to help. If only … if only things had turned out differently, if they'd captured Wormtail and forced him to testify, to tell the truth about Harry's parents' betrayal. He shook his head, jaw clenched, the anger rising up again to choke him. But, no, of course that couldn't happen. Nothing helpful worked out for Harry. And now Sirius was far away, distancing himself from the ministry and Hogwarts. From Harry. He had to if he wanted to survive.
A tendril of chilly fog eased through the anger, cooling it before it could flare up into another explosion of accidental magic. Harry leaned back against the wall, wincing. Something about that icy feeling seemed familiar. Like déjà vu. He tried to catch the sensation, to spread it out and examine it. It came eagerly to his inner touch, thickening and lengthening from an ethereal wisp into a handkerchief-sized cloth, and then a cloak, and then a blanket, sliding across his nerves, wrapping him in serenity.
Within his cocoon, the heat of Harry's roiling emotions drained away, seeping down into a puddle in the center of his soul. His mind steadied, the painful memories of loss and pain and guilt, of Sirius flying away on Buckbeak, of Quirrell's face turning into blackened ash at Harry's grip, of the sharp pain of a basilisk fang puncturing his arm were still there, but colorless, standing out in stark black and white, clearer and sharper than ever before. It was as if he could see them, walk around them, examine each detail without his feelings crippling him.
He remembered this.
Harry closed his eyes and the images rose up in his memory. His father's shouts. His mother's screams. A figure rising before him. A flash of green light, a bite of pain and Harry was crying, sobbing, weeping in his crib. Hiccupping for his mama, his dada, terrified. Noises were loud – rushed footsteps, cries of loss and grief – baby Harry had closed his eyes, barely able to catch his breath. And then, slowly, a cool film had enveloped him, quieting his panic, easing his thumping heart. His tears dried, Harry had sat heavily in his crib, blanketed by an inner cloak that kept his 15-month-old mind calm, waiting. His bedroom's bright colors were muted to greys, the details standing out that much more starkly. A moment later a huge hairy figure lumbered in, tears streaming down his face. Hagrid. He'd scooped Harry up in a thick blanket and carried him away. Still, little Harry watched silently from behind his armor of ice.
Hagrid had told him the story. His wide eyes blinking to keep away his tears, the soft-hearted half-giant had shared the tale of how he'd taken Sirius' flying motorbike and come to take Harry away. How Harry hadn't cried or even made a sound during their journey to Privet Drive. Harry had believed it had been shock, but, maybe not. Maybe this feeling, this muffling of his fears was something else entirely. He shifted, easing the scraped flesh of his back away from the wall, his pillow jammed underneath one elbow. Maybe some bit of Harry's magic had been born back in his crib, his parents' bodies lying crumpled on the floor. Maybe it had saved his sanity. Harry's breathing slowed, his hands falling lax at his sides. In another moment, he was asleep, safe within the cool pressure of the mysterious inner shield.
Down the hall, Vernon Dursley waited just inside his bedroom door, his ear pressed to the gap he'd left open. One snore – one word – the smallest noise from that little freak and he'd give him the hiding of his life. He waited, his bare feet turning to icicles against the wood floor. Vernon shivered, screwing up his face in a scowl.
"You're lucky, boy," he murmured as he made his way back to his bed, shivering, pulling the blanket up over his shoulder. "That luck won't last. There's two weeks before your freaky friends are coming for you." Vernon lurched onto his side, away from Petunia, and breathed on his cupped hands, trying to catch some warmth. "I'll have you before then. Oh, I'll have you."
Harry slept on, the pain lines around his eyes smoothing out, his skin losing its pinched pallor. A deep, even breath released a cool mist into the air that hovered over his slim form. It settled over Harry's bed in an arc reaching from the top of his head to his socked feet, muffling the boy's breathing and any natural sounds from changing position. Inside the chill cloud, Harry's lips curved up into a smile.