Surry, 4 Privet Drive 1994 (Summer after Third Year)
Uncle Vernon threw Harry onto the floor of Dudley's second bedroom.
"Heres all your getting, boy, so use it well," The robust man threw a pharmacy beg next to Harry's crumpled figure. The door closed and Harry could hear the lock clicking shut. He panted, blood dripping down his chin. His knuckled made long smudges of blood across his face but Harry didn't care. He got to his hands and knees and crawled over to the bag to open it eagerly. Inside were bandages, some rubbing alcohol, antibiotics, water, a loaf of bread, and wipes.
Harry tettered as he stood and limped over to his 'bed' if it could even be called that. It was a lumpy grey piece of fabric over springs. Least to say, uncomfortable if not dangerous. The springs were sharp and stuck out the sides at some points. Harry sighed when he flopped down on it anyways. His hair was tucked inside a fraying grey beanie that sagged at the back. His shirt was stuck to his chest with blood. Harry was glad he couldn't see much else.
Harry took off his shirt slowly being patient with the sticking parts and trying to ignore the burning in his arms. He finally got it off of his skeletal frame and he threw the filthy bit of fabric into a corner. Harry looked like a mess. His torso was covered in long thin scars and shallow ones, deep white ones and small red ones too. There was a deep white gash across his neck and small crescent-shaped scars on his hips. Harry ignored those and went for the deep ones on his sides. He worked his way over his torso with a relatively clean piece of cloth and the rubbing alcohol numb the whole time. When he was finished Harry reached around and tried his best with the long lashes across his back. Then he set to work on adding bandages to the deepest ones and antibiotics to the smaller ones. When he was done, he looked like a mummy. Bandages wrapped around his torse and throat, hands, and the tops of his arms too.
The fights weren't new for Harry. Vernon had introduced the idea when Harry was eight years old. Harry would fight in a ring in some bastard's dank basement with some other desperate infant for money. If he won he ate. If he didn't… he paid in other ways.
However, Harry was used to fighting against other scared children. They would be much bigger than him but not by much. He wasn't used to fighting against adults with weapons. Adults who weren't there because they were starving and needed the money, no, these were adults who didn't give a damn about the money. They just wanted to knock the shit out of some poor bloke who didn't have any other choice. The only saving grace to these men where that they bet A LOT of money. Like in the hundred thousand on fights especially going against a 4'9 kid with a waist so small that some of them could fig their entire hand around it.
That's why Harry won the fights. He exercised when he wasn't doing chores and picked up books on fighting on his way back from the grocery store. He studied these books and followed the formations which didn't help as much as a real teacher but Harry learned. His style of fighting was fast and dirty. He used his small stature to his advantage and used dancing techniques to learn how to jump high and spin around his opponents. He knew how to wear a guy out. They couldn't hit him if they couldn't catch him. Harry wasn't ashamed to say that a bit of wandless magic was in play either. If Harry had to shock their knife hand to make them drop their weapon or trip them with a strange gust of wind, Harry would do it. He was actually quite talented at making these small bits of magic work in his favor. He liked knives too. He had two small switchblades transfigured from metal piping. They were steel grey and fit into his palms perfectly. Harry wasn't the only one leaving with wounds, that's for sure.
Harry stretched his tender muscles. His lithe form was lined with thin muscles and toned from the hours of exercise late at night after nightmares. His skin was a deep bronze color from toiling in the sun. His hands were small and cracked. There were layers over layers of small white scars. His knuckles were busted and purple. Harry practically felt the magic fixing the damage to his torso and hands. It wouldn't fix everything but it would fix enough. Harry was good at this type of internal magic and coaxing it out to heal himself.
Harry sipped on his water and ate a slice of white bread. He had to eat it slowly of his stomach would protest it. While he ate, he thought about Ron and Hermione. They had just finished their third year of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and what a year it was. A godfather! He had a godfather!
And what use was he? A part of his thought grumbled. Harry ignored it and smiled small so he wouldn't mess up the way his magic was fixing his busted lip. A godfather. Sirius was the best! From the leather jackets to the tattoos. Merlin! The tattoos! They were so cool. Sirius laughed when Harry asked if he could get some. Sirius said there was a spell but you couldn't choose what tattoos you got. They were chosen by magic to represent you. Sirius said that most people didn't want their skin to tell their life story but well… Harrys already did. From the knife wounds to the carved words, his body told everyone everything there was to know about him. His body wasn't a temple it was a run-down cathedral mold growing in the hallow places. Harry knew the spell and he couldn't wait to do it as soon as he could.
His third year at Hogwarts was a mess. He studied when he could but it was mostly defense and runes. He kept up in class, better than Ron but not as over the top as Hermione. Most of his teachers had already grown used to his subpar assignments and seemed to ignore his progress all except Flitwick. Harry still went to tea In his office once a week where the small teacher told him about his mother. He truly saved Harry from going mad with the dementors around making Harry relive his worst memories. He was also the only gateway Harry had to his parent's lives until Sirius.
Thinking of his cool godfather made him think about his two best friends, Hermione and Ron. With no Hedwig, Harry couldn't get letters anymore but he hoped that they were okay after the events of last year. Harry shook thinking of the vacant body of his godfather and the monstrous form of his trusted professor. Well, Lupin wasn't all that trusted. Harry couldn't get the thought out of his head that Lupin knew that Sirius was an animagus and he didn't tell Harry.
What if Sirius WASNT innocent? Harry would be dead!
He wasn't going to hold a grudge. Harry knew how important friendship was however he wasn't going to spill his soul to a man who took that chance either. Or at least until he got to know the man more.
The last time he talked with Hermione, she was traveling to America with her parents. She had all kinds of facts about American magic systems s and how her parents got a lot of pressure from the magical government. Supposedly, Americans didn't allow muggle-borns to stay with their parents once they started to show signs of magic. Muggles had their mind wiped of their children and magic and sent off with a hefty compensation package. It freaked Harry out a bit but he could kinda see where they were coming from. The Salem witch trials were a dark time and feeling the weight of the church's eye upon himself multiple times after the Dursley took him in for repeat baptisms and exorcisms, he felt that he barely felt a fraction of what those poor children felt during such a horrendous time. After all, children, cant cast flame tickling spells especially when they have no magical training. To not be able to trust anyone, not even yourself was a terrifying thing.
Ron, however, seemed to be spending his summer flying up a storm. He described his flights in detail but all that made Harry do was crave the rush, the freedom that flying provided. Even Ron couldn't describe it adequately. He said nothing of the taste of condensation, nothing of the vibration of the broom. Why didn't he talk about the power over your own fate and how in an instant you could just let go? Instead, he tried to compensate the wind brushing through his hair and caressing his entire being with 'It was bloody brilliant!'?
Harrys hand was splayed over his abdomen. Small wisps of air flickered over his belly ticklishly. The red light of the dawn slanted over his room slowly as the sun rose for the day.
Harry waited for three sharp knocks.
Harry slaved over the hot stove and slowly breakfast began to appear. Harry set the food down on the table. Bacon, eggs, bangers, coffee, tomatoes, fried bread, beans, and sausages. A miniature feast fit for a small army. Harry paid special attention to the aesthetics of the food placement and even neatened the food on the plates. He knew Aunt Petunia would be looking for these kinds of imperfections even if her husband and child were just going to inhale it anyway.
As if her name was called, Aunt Petunia walked into a kitchen and studied the table with a keen eye. Her eyes cut to him and Harry saw her grimace. Harry knew that she didn't like his darker skin, not that she would stop him from working outside. She took great joy in telling the neighbors that Harrys father was an immigrant and a hoodlum. That didn't mean she wanted to touch him though. She smacked the back of his head with a tea towel and moved to gather cups.
The smell of fresh food summoned the men of the house. Their hulking mass made the stairs groan in protest. Uncle Vernon would probably make him redo the stairs again or at least punish him for his previous work. Even if those stairs were strong enough to hold both of the big-bodied Dursley men at the same time when he had done it. Harry knew. Dudley and Vernon had jumped on the stairs making sure none of them creaked or groaned under their magnificent weight.
Vernon and Dudley sat heavily in their chairs and like Harry had thought, fell onto their breakfast like rabid dogs. Even Aunt Petunia looked disgusted by their behavior but she smiled brittly as all good housewives did.
"Bring my coffee, boy!" Uncle Vernon demanded. Harry walked over quickly but light on his feet. His steps hardly made a sound. After all the dancing exercises he did to get better at fighting, his moves were more graceful. He knew how to manage his coltish body and moved with a graceful ease that even Aunt Petunia was jealous of. Harry poured Uncle Vernons coffee and moved to fill Aunt Petunia's cup as well. With a sudden push of a pale thin hand, the piping hot coffee was spilled all over Harry. Aunt Petunia smirked up at Harry.
"None for me," she said with a cool smile. Harry could feel the coffee burning his skin. He nodded calmly and walked over to the corner to wait. The food disappeared quickly but Harry appeared quicker to take away the plates and start to wash them. When the Dursleys were finished with their food Harry was already nearly done with the washing and was putting the last of the dishes away.
"How was the fight dad?"Dudley asked excitedly. Harry stiffened inside. How could Dudley just talk about it as if Harry hadn't nearly been killed? As if it was an episode of his favorite TV channel? Harry finished with the washing and stood in the corner with an empty expression on his face. Uncle Vernon laughed.
"I won!" He exclaimed," A quarter of a million dollars too! Say, why don't we go do something today? All of us? My treat!" Uncle Vernon offered. Harry looked over the family cooly but distantly. His treat? His win? Harry knew it didn't matter but still, something hot inside his chest flared.
"Yeah, Dad! But can we invite Oscar? And can it be for the weekend instead of just a day?" Dudley begged. Uncle Vernon nodded indulgently. Dudley whooped and ran upstairs to pack. Harry watched him go. Oscar, he mused, was a rather handsome boy. Uppercrust which was why Aunt Petunia was eager to encourage the friendship. But Harry wondered if Aunt Petunia would continue to encourage the friendship when she noticed the boy sending Harry's eyes and blushing prettily whenever the two boys were outside watching Harry work. Probably not, Harry decided.
"What will we do with the boy?" Aunt Petunia asked. Harry turned his attention back to the table where his relatives sat. The vile woman had a gaunt pointy face. It was pale and colorless which wasn't helped much with her bleached blond hair, a trend that was popular among housewives in the area. It had almost made Harry laugh when he noticed that the entire street was filled with platinum blonds with poorly hidden roots.
'She wishes she was my mother' Harry thought meanly but he allowed himself this small pleasure. Her eyes were cornflower blue, plain, too narrow of a shape. She had a straight Roman nose which looked too severe on her delicate features. Her lips were thin and smothered in rouge. Like a clown, Harry inwardly snickered.
"Leave him here and lock his in. You know he can't get out without being suspended from THAT place," His uncle grumbled. His aunt nodded satisfied. Harry swore that the woman hated him more than she use to. Maybe it was because of his new looks. Harry knew he looked a bit strange and he doubted that even his closest friends would recognize what he looked like now. With the not-so-legal vision-correcting potion, his godfather had sent him he didn't need his glasses which exaggerated his other features like his bright green eyes which had flecks of gold running throughout them like the sun skipping over spring leaves. He had an upturned lose, a strong brow, sharp cheekbones, and a cupid bow lip. All features she had wanted for her son. Harry inwardly frowned. This was a new facet of their relationship too. Even if he didn't much understand it.
"Boy! You heard Vernon. Up to the room," She yelled shrilly. Harry nodded calmly and walked up to his room and closed the door. Despite his relative's beliefs, Harry was not going to stay in his room for the rest of the weekend. In fact, he was planning to hang out at the local park and maybe pick up some library books while he was out. Harry took his time organizing his supplies and hiding them under the floorboards with his cauldron cakes licorice wands and cans of Coke.
He heard the locks clicking closed and the happy laughter of his cousin fill the house and sighed.
He knew he would be free soon.
It was nightfall when Harry finally unlocked the locks on his door and snuck out of the Dursley house. The sky was a velvet sea and though the stars were dull from all the lights they winked brightly at him. The sight made Harry miss his late-night flying sessions viscerally. He breathed in deeply allowing the cool summer night air to fill his lungs and he weaved between the street lights.
This late at night, all the cookie-cutter houses looked ghostly to Harry. Their grassy lawns tickled his ankles as he walked through the lush foliage to the playpark.
The playground looked as if though it was stuck in time. It was something else that had never changed and Harry couldn't imagine ever hating it but he did when he was smaller. He hated the peeling paint on the slide, the squeaky chains of the swings, the yellow grass, and the large sign above it all christening the place SURREYS SUNNY PLAYPARK. The large sun mascot had looked lecherous to Harry, its chubby baby face looked too much like a younger Dudley for comfort but now Harry couldn't imagine ever being without the place. Harry sat down on a swing and rocked himself slowly.
Whenever he looked at the sky he couldn't help but look for Sirius.
It was sad. It was even pathetic how much he depended on a clearly undependable man for security. This was the same man who had no qualms about murdering someone in front of him. He wasn't in his right mind. He wasn't sane but Harry- Harry loved him. It was selfish, wasn't it? Because Harry didn't love him for who he was, Harry loved him for what he represented. Freedom. Harrys shaky breath came out in a gust of white.
Ron, Hermione, Sirius...Harry wondered if he would ever love somebody properly.