C.S.I.: Privet Drive: Chapter One
A.N.: I do not own the Harry Potter franchise.
"Kill the spare, Wormtail."
"Avada Kedavra!"
"Bones of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son…"
Searing agony. Blood on fire. A bundle of pure evil lovingly dropped into a massive cauldron…
An explosion. Screaming. Pain worse than when Dudley shoved his head into the toilet, worse than aunt Petunia's frying pan making contact with his flesh, even worse, still than uncle Vernon shoving him down and into the thorny rose bushes in the backyard.
And oblivion. Cascading blackness, holding him close like a blanket.
"Boy! Wake up this instant and stop your hollering, you freak!" Hm? What was that? Wasn't Cedric screaming? No.
No.
Uncle Vernon was the one screaming. And, based on what he was screaming about, Harry had been the one to scream first.
"I'm sorry, Uncle, I'll be quiet now!" Harry couldn't help how his voice rose an octave or two when the reality of his situation came crashing back down on him. How Wormtail had stolen his blood, how Voldemort had exploded the cauldron and then the entire graveyard the moment his body and Harry's blood had made contact. How Dumbledore had denied him access to a room within Hogwarts over the summer because, "Surely, my boy, your family would like to see you this summer? You've just nearly died, they must want to see how much better you're doing. Besides, you don't even have any evidence of them hurting you, as you claim they have. Lying is most unbecoming, my boy."
Dumbledore could go suck a goddamn-
"You had better, you filthy little pig." Ah, Uncle Vernon.
And so, Harry's summer began.
– – –
Harry was at the stove, flipping an egg, when Vernon Dursley stomped down the stairs. Somehow, his already tense muscles tensed up even further at the sound of his uncle's pants as he stormed into the kitchen looking like the personification of rage. Well, shit, it looks like Harry screwed something up. Hoping for a peaceful morning where he may get some scraps was a stupid thing to do, anyway.
"Boy!" the lumbering mass of flesh known as uncle Vernon bellowed. Really, the man shouldn't be yelling- he would likely have a heart attack. Although, that would be pleasant. For Harry, that is. Dudley and aunt Petunia may be a bit less pleased with that. While Harry's consciousness made a valiant effort to focus on anything other than the sharp pain of hunger and how hard it was to breathe around the ball of panic in his throat, Vernon continued, "You didn't wash my sheets, you filthy little vermin. They were covered in stains and smelled like the sewer, you incompetent devil spawn!"
As Harry had internally screamed before, oh shit. Looking at the expression on his uncle's face, he knew that not even Dumbledore in all his twinkly glory could save him from the pain that Vernon was about to force him to experience. Knowing nothing he could say would help the situation any more than staying silent, he just looked blankly at Vernon and realized belatedly that the eggs would burn soon.
Vernon's lumbering stomps were the only warning he had before his hands were on the stovetop. Whether he had experienced the cruciatus curse or not, the stovetop was bloody hot and he couldn't be blamed for screaming like the flesh of his palms was being irreversibly damaged- oh wait, it was being irreversibly damaged! But the only thing in Harry's mind other than hysteria was white-hot pain that he hadn't experienced before, ever. Maybe if Vernon had gone this far before it would be easier to deal with like he dealt with everything else, but sweet Merlin, his hands-
He couldn't say how long his palms had been subject to the stove's unforgiving heat and his uncle's cruelty, but when his hands were released and he could tear himself away from the blinding hot pain- and that only caused the agony to multiply- he doubled over and started sobbing even harder as he shuffled himself into the corner of the kitchen furthest away from the stove, the scent of his burnt flesh and even more burnt eggs wafting through the room. If he never saw a goddamn stove again, it would be too soon. And Merlin, the scent of his burnt flesh-
Harry vomited while Vernon was starting to feel a bit of fear for how the freak's filthy little friends would react to the boy's relatively temporary inability to use his hands or touch things and his sudden phobia of all things cooked and avoidance of eggs. He decided to wait a few days and if nobody did anything, it would be fine.
Nobody did anything.
Everything was not fine.
– – –
In the remaining weeks until Harry's fifth year started, his aunt and uncle made every second of his life positively miserable. Never mind pans swinging at his head, there were fists swinging at him for any perceived error on his part, or sometimes for no reason at all. During all of this, nobody noticed Harry's increasingly pained expressions and bruised skin. If they did, though, they didn't care.
The torture Harry had gone through at the Dursley residence only made his escape to the wizarding world all the sweeter. If he had some interesting new scars and had managed to find himself books on charms to change appearances, nobody said anything about it. Maybe because he didn't let them find out about any of that. So, he enjoyed himself as he sat with his friends on the train, making sure he didn't lean against anything too forcefully and trying not to shriek when he was hugged too tightly. He endured Ron's whining about not getting anything new and not-so-subtle envious glances at Harry's new books and Hermione's bewildered and yet gleeful expression at Harry finally taking an interest in the pursuit of knowledge, even if it was knowledge on vain things like physical appearances. Neither of them noticed Harry stiffening up even more than usual at any physical contact and his malnourished form, though.
When they got to the carriages, and Harry saw the thestrals while nobody else did, his mood was rather dampened. Luna's talk of nargles and crumple-horned snorkacks was a nice distraction from how much his body hurt and how empty his stomach was, though, and he appreciated that far more than her knowing glances. Those were just creepy and roused what little energy he had to spare solely so that he could be properly irritated with her. Therefore, he was practically comatose at the Gryffindor table and more than ready to go to sleep when that vile pink toad woman started spouting ministry propaganda. Of bloody course the ministry would still be more than ready to crawl into Dumbledore's domain and poke around, even after Dumbledore's weapon- cough, Boy-Who-Lived, cough- had saved their sorry arses. And to think, Harry had been hoping for a nice, peaceful school year.
But everything could still be totally and completely fine! It's not like anything terrible could happen, could it?
– – –
Everything was absolutely not totally and completely fine, and terrible things absolutely could happen.
Umbridge was a nightmare, detentions back-to-back with the toad and the bat made for a positively agonizing punishment, and nobody bloody cared. Students were being tortured when they spent too much time with Dumbledore or were too friendly to him, or even just had the audacity to not be a pureblood, and not one single goddamn teacher was doing anything about it. Professor McGonagall had just told him to put his head down when he had tried to tell her about Umbridge's detention, and going to Dumbledore when he was still bitter over him not letting Harry stay at Hogwarts over the summer was not an option.
The only good thing in his life was how easy maintaining glamour charms upon glamour charms all hours of the day and night had become for him. Nobody had seen any scars, noticed his aversion to eggs, worried over his suddenly extra messy handwriting (Vernon had gotten a bit too enthusiastic with burning his hands, and some things just didn't heal), or just thought about how haunted he looked. Hell, the few times he had tried to be a bit more open about basic things regarding his relatives with Ron he had been met with angry silence because Ron still assumed that anything he said was said solely to gain attention. Ron had even slapped his back when Harry mentioned it hurting.
Harry had thought that after the disaster that was fourth year Ron would be a bit better, but nope. Still a stupid, jealous prat. And Hermione being Hermione, she always chose Ron's side. Harry sometimes wondered if they were still even friends, and couldn't bring himself to care much when he realized they weren't.
Everyone left him in the end, anyways, whether they were once friends or not.
– – –
The year went on similarly, with his hands getting cut up by Umbridge- I will respect authority.- and Snape demanding he clean cauldrons without magic nor gloves right afterward, his friends becoming more and more aggressive towards him, and he himself just getting so tired. Most days he didn't even want to get out of bed.
Of course, the end of the year came eventually and it was surprisingly tame. Hermione had given up on forcing him to start an illegal DADA club, and so nearly everyone failed that class's exams. Somehow, Harry got a better grade on his charms O.W.L. than he had expected, although he thought it may be because of his extracurricular deep-dive into charms to hide his scars. Overall, he did average on his exams, though.
But then it was time to go back to the Dursleys. And where there were Dursleys, there was pain.
– – –
Severus Snape may not be the most… normal wizard in many ways, but he still read the Daily Prophet. Some days he questioned why he had even gotten himself a subscription to that rag in the first place, like when every day for a week straight the front page was a different photo of the snot-nosed Boy-Who-Lived. On days like this particular one, though, he was relatively glad that he had deigned the gossipy little paper worthy of his hard-earned money. Because there, right on the front page, was a Rita Skeeter article heading that was exceptionally terrible.
"Boy-Who-Lived Dies at Muggle Residence?!"
Severus knew there was a reason he hated Saturdays and beetles.
