Nothing happened on Halloween.
Well, nothing physical happened on Halloween, not to Harry. Nothing worth brooding about, nothing compared to what he survived for years and years at the house on Privet Drive (he wouldn't call the place his home, not now that he knew an entire world of options to find a true home in, a place where he was loved).
Harry Potter had a family. Not - the people who locked him in a cupboard and starved him and touched him in ways that his body could not comprehend yet - no, Harry had actual family. He discovered that when Ron had been chatting his ear off about the feast and the Wizarding traditions.
"Oh," Ron realized, suddenly with guilt coursing through him. "You probably don't want to celebrate Halloween, not - I'm so sorry I've been so insensitive."
Harry had froze, ears ringing. Did- did Ron know? No, nobody knew what he felt about Halloween, Harry had mastered the art of faking excitement and his aunt certainly would never be open about her secret vengeance on her late sister. "What? In- how'd you know that I don't like Halloween?"
Seamus, who'd been following the pair to breakfast, explained. "Ev'ryone in our world here celebrates the day that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named disappeared. Stands to follow that you're unhappy about the day your parents kicked it."
"Yeah, mate, I can't imagine how bad it is to be mourning when everyone else is celebrating." Ron explained, feeling like that was the least he could do after having been one of the ones celebrating. Plus, Harry still looked confused, and Ron suddenly thought Harry might not know what happened specifically after his parents were murdered. It's not like the Muggles would tell him, Ron knew that for sure. "Not only is today the day your parents died, but also it's because of that Halloween that you're famous. Dumbledore wouldn't have visited the safehouse your parents stayed at if they had died on any old Tuesday. He found them, and You-Know-Who, all dead bodies, and got you to the hospital where the Medi-Witches discovered you survived the Killing Curse."
Harry sat through breakfast and Transfiguration in a daze. His parents died. On a day. A day he could mark on a calendar, an actual date he could think about in less than an abstract form of whatever-my-parents-might've-been-if-Aunt-wasn't-lying. And oh, his aunt. p/
His aunt, Harry thought, avoiding the angry eyes of the lecturing McGonagall who was scolding the class for gossiping about the feast rather than listening, his aunt must have known when her sister died. His aunt punished him on Halloween. His aunt punished Harry on the day of his mother's-his parents'- death as some twisted form of punishing Harry for his mum's crimes. What had his mother done? Harry wondered, and then shook his head. He's thought down that path many times, and he was not going to hate his mother immediately after finding out the day she died. He was not. He was-
Harry walked on autopilot to the Defense classroom. Ron recognized the dazed look in Harry's eyes for what it was - his mum looked like that after Uncle Fabian died, and she wouldn't talk for the rest of the day. The Muggles had a word for it, Ron's dad said. Diss-ectopic or something like that.
Unfortunately for Harry, Professor Quirrell never lectured. His stuttering the first few weeks had caused some older students (mostly Ravenclaws) to complain to the school board and so all lectures had to be accompanied with either writing while talking or a written transcript after class for students with auditory processing problems. Professor Quirrell simply rectified the issue by no longer giving lectures. In class demonstrations were not held to the same standards.
"Now, c-c-c-class-s, ast-t-od-d-day's Halloween, we will b-b-be d-d-doing B-b-bat Bog-g-gey Hex-x-xes. You sh-should-d-d have r-r-read the p-p-pac-c-cket on the Hex for homew-wor-r-rk. Wands out, and p-partn-n-ner up, people!"
Harry had done the reading late the previous night - in a futile attempt to avoid the nightmares that came with every night before Halloween - but his mind still blanked. His hands wouldn't do what his ears had heard instructed. His eyes closed in a fruitless attempt to ground himself, find his way back to the present. He opened them and Ron was standing next to his desk.
"Harry, mate, I'm sorry, but we gotta do the assignment. Just stand up and wave your wand around, the hex is supposed to be really challenging." Harry stood. His hand shook, giving the appearance that he took Ron's advice.
Ron genuinely attempted the hex, hoping if he succeeded Harry would need to be seen by Madam Pomfrey where he could stew or rest or mourn without the repercussions of being in class. "vespertillo mucus colloidium!"
Green goo shout out of Ron's wand, but no bats. The professor, who'd been correcting the Granger girl's wand positioning, noticed the failed spell and that Harry was motionless and walked over.
"o-k-kay boy's, how's the spell wor-rk-K-king?" Quirrell placed a hand on Harry's shoulder. Harry stiffened, the cold, too soft pressure reminding him of his aunt and her bed,
the soft touch of the sheets against his skin as
she pressed her naked body against his skinny one, her breasts engulfing the younger boy's torso as hands were moving to private areas. "Your mother used to do this to me, boy! Don't you think I know it hurts, it's supposed to hurt, boy! You're being punished, and I damn well have the right to enjoy it, with all you put me through, you worthless freak. You- you-" she moaned, Harry's young body reacting the way it would to any touch as Harry's entire being felt violated, as Harry's erection piushed his aunt over the edge- "fre-e-eak!"
Harry's body began reacting to the flashback. The fact that Quirrell's eyes were the same color as Petunia's, and he also had a skinny neck and body were not helping the matter. The professor may have been talking. Ron may have been talking. The touch may have been over, but Harry was too far gone in the bright lights of the defense classroom, garlic turning into his aunt's scented candles. Harry's ears roared like they had when Dudley shoved Harry into the deep end of pool and pushed him under. Like pressure was building.
"The spell's been going fine, Professor. I got some green stuff to go out of my wand" Ron answered as Harry had been suffering. Ron attempted the spell again, with the same result. p/
p "And M-M-Mis-ter P-P-Pot-t-ter over here?" Harry's hand was at his side, not out, trembling like a branch in a rainstorm. "M-Mis-ter P-P-Pot-t-ter?" Quirrell's free hand waved across the boy's line of vision, unknowingly adding more fuel to the already occurring flashbacks. Harry was breathing heavily. Ron stepped closer, unsure about what to do.
"Harry hasn't tried the spell yet, sir. He's just been standing there all class. I think he's dis-secto-ing? Dissociating! Dissociating! Today's the day his parents died, sir. He's not really reacting much to the outside world." Ron explained what he thought was happening. Maybe the professor would help Harry? Ron hoped.
Quirinus Quirrell silently used legilimency on the panicking student. The scenes were not what he expected from the boy-who-lived, but they gave the spirit possessing him great pleasure. The Professor held the boy by both shoulders, appearing to Weasley to be helping the boy come back to reality while in reality the memories were becoming more intense.
Harry could feel the sensation of being watched, the way he sometimes felt in the shower when he knew his aunt was watching behind the curtain, only if he moved it she'd come up with an excuse. The sensation was similar, only the event was his own aunt molesting and raping him rather than his mundane showering, and the curtain was Harry's mind.
Harry fled. Harry's body tore itself out of the Professor's grip and ran. Where, he didn't know. He felt like Dudley was chasing him again, and if he slowed down the pain would be worse. Harry didn't know what was worse: the knowledge -yes, knowledge, regardless of how hard he tried to deny it - that his mum had been hurting - no, touching (Harry never learned the word rape, not now at age eleven) - hurting/touching his aunt or the other pain, the physical pain his body remembered and now wanted him to re-experience. His mum was awful but his aunt deserved it because she was awful and his parents were dead not from a drunken car crash but from a murderer Harry had killed and so now he had nobody to blame for his misery.
Harry ran up to the dorm room without thinking. He curled up in the bathroom, light off. His eyes were open but he was not seeing. He felt unfocused, fuzzy, and visually appeared that way too, only no one was watching. Harry's body cried, and Harry Potter wanted to be with his parents. Harry cried, and hours passed. The feast occurred. A troll broke into the castle. The Granger girl Ron had apparently insulted after class died, and Ron was knocked unconscious after gallantly trying to fight the troll. Harry Potter would not learn about these events that Halloween. That Halloween, he'd lie down on the first bed he's ever willingly slept in and mourn the parents he never had, the life he never had. He thought and felt all the conflicting emotions he had buried inside his mind for the past nine years, the intrusion of his mind having torn through the magic protecting Harry Potter from himself. Harry Potter had repressed these emotions not only because he needed to, but because his mother's sacrifice -and the blood wards- demanded these barriers.
Harry Potter survived a childhood of every abuse imaginable. Harry Potter had magic, and the Legilimency attack upon him destroyed the Occlumency his subconscious mind had used to protect him. Harry Potter was no longer protected from himself - and that meant that the boy-who-lived might not live for much longer.
Repress enough emotions and memories and self-hatred of your magic, the repression takes a life of its own. Remove the Occlumency, and Harry Potter, who slept the night peacefully unaware, was now at the very real risk of becoming an Obscurial.