Title: Come What May
Author: DuchessAndromeda
Rating: R (Sorry, I tried, the next chapter should be… cleaner!)
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters belong to J.K.Rowling and various other people that I don't know. No infringement is intended.
Summary: All Harry wants is to be normal, but what we want and what we need are sometimes two very different things. Sometimes it takes an extreme act to get either.
Author's Notes: Thanks again to Wiccan PussyKat, who has continually encouraged me to add some humor in with my degradations. She has also encouraged me to move the plot a long, and don't worry, the Order should actually see what they have done in this chapter… I think. And yes, this will have romantic under themes, but I have yet to decide who to pair people with. There will probably be some minor R/Hr, but as to Harry… well, right now he mainly needs someone to care for him, not someone to fuck. I have nothing against slash myself, as evidenced by my favorite page, but it is doubtful that I will incorporate that into this story. It is possible that some parts can be taken as slash, and if that's what floats your boat, go right ahead. If not, well, just take everything at face value, or close your eyes and scroll down. Gak, this author's note is getting way to long… Bad Duchess! No cookie for you! Er… me. So, just a few more things before the story will actually begin again. First, I apologize for the delay in this chapter. In this, there will be a scene that sets the tone for the rest of the story and I wanted to get it just right. Also, said scene was rewritten numerous times with various characters before someone finally convinced me to go with the final one… Secondly, please feel free to review or e-mail me with any or all of your suggestions or comments. I promise to at least consider them, but they may not be plausible for this author to handle ^.^
Anyway, just a shameless plug: Go read my poetry!! Either here or Fictionpress, either one is fine. Pretty please?
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~Chapter 3~
If Harry could think coherently, he would have been surprised at the lack of pain. As it was, he was just feeling too blissful to realize exactly what the lack of pain meant. But then, it was a familiar sensation, one that he had experienced many times in his short life. Scary how one who had never heard the phrase "I love you" directed at him could be so willing to die for it, but I digress. Harry Potter lay on the floor of the living room in number 4 Pivet drive, while his Uncle rained blows and words down upon his beaten body. But Harry didn't realize all of that. All he knew was that the pain was gone...
And that peace was fast approaching.
~~~
Number Four, Privet Drive - in the yard
After learning everything the two teenagers knew about Harry and his situation, the Order had been prepared to fly off to rescue him. Ron and Hermione desperately wished that they could, but since Ron had actually seen Harry's Uncle, and with what Hermione had read on child abuse in the muggle world, they held the others back so that they wouldn't interrupt something that could cost Harry his life.
In the end it was Tonks that came up with a solution, albeit a temporary one. They would floo Arabella's and ask her if she had seen Harry before going over there. Some would floo, others would apparate, having been there before. Once they were there, the plan was to have Moody use his magical eye to try and find where Harry and his Uncle both were, and at an appropriate interval to enter the domicile and get Harry out.
But like all the best made plans, it fell to crap when faced with the emotions of very strung out wizards, who happened to care very much about what happened to the one within.
This was a neighborhood that minded its own business. Either that, or Vernon didn't care what anyone thought. The curtains were drawn back, and as the Order walked up to number 4, they were greeted with a cacophony of colors. White was the original shade of the carpet and walls, barely discernable from the blood splatters that appeared to be everywhere. White was the color of the bones that stuck through Harry's skin, while more blood slowly dripped down to form a pool beneath him. White was the color of the ejaculation from Vernon, as he got off on the pain. Red was the color of the substance that clung to the obese man's now flaccid member. A motley of purples, greens, and blues of the bruises that almost every visible inch of the boy's once flawless skin. Yellow and brown from where Harry had soiled himself out of necessity. And in the midst of it all, the black of the hair that seemed to be the only thing that retained its original color, managing somehow to complete the spectrum. The ones in front stared in shock, not having expecting things to have been this bad.
Behind them, someone threw up, and Albus Dumbledore began to move.
Now, Albus Dumbledore is generally classified as a kind and forgiving soul. Why, it is even said that he could forgive the man who stole his socks, a grave offence in the eccentric Headmaster's world. But seeing this child, his poor beloved child that he had tried ever so hard to protect from the evils he would eventually have to face, being subjected to this inhuman torture, was more than even his jolly, twinkly-eyed self could manage.
Now, don't let Albus's grandfatherly exterior fool you - while most of the time he is content to be the benign old man who adores socks and lemon drops, as well as manipulating those he views as his children, he was, and still is, one of the most powerful wizards of this age. There are those that argue that he would be the most powerful, if only he would stoop to use the Dark Arts to their full potential, but anyone who knew Albus Wulific Percival Brian Dumbledore knew that he would never do such a thing.
However, when it came to Vernon Dursley, he was definitely tempted. Gripping his wand tightly in one hand, Albus struggled to contain himself to acceptable parameters of magic. But, with each millisecond that he stood there, and had to watch his poor, beloved Harry in such a state, the angrier he got. And as the late Bartimus Crouch JR saw, and Harry Potter still knew, one simply did not get Albus Dumbledore angry and live to tell about it. That was the lesson that Vernon was about to learn, and it started when the window and the front wall of the house self-destructed.
If anyone were able to objectively view this scene, they would have been treated to the remarkable likeness that the formally jovial Headmaster now held to the worst of the Dark Lords.
And if said Dark Lords had seen, and if they had any sense, they would have started running immediately.
It really is just too bad that Mr. Vernon Dursley who held himself to such remarkable levels of normalcy didn't actually have any sense. For him, at any rate.
~~~
Harry Potter was tired. And sore. And hungry. But those others were only secondary to the fatigue that seemed to press in from all sides. Dimly, he was aware that his Uncle was still there, and since he wasn't back in the cupboard, the bastard had to be still beating him. But somehow, Harry just couldn't bring himself to care. Breathing took so much effort for his already taxed strength, and he was tempted to just cease the struggle that came with each breath. Some part of him still rebelled at this thought, screaming something about Voldemort, and his friends… but caring took too much effort too.
He took one more breath deeply into lungs that were slowly filling with blood, drowning him in a mixture of his own saliva and the liquid that gave him, and Voldemort, life. He breathed out, coughing up a little of the deadly mixture, and prepared to just let go.
But what was that? Something moved, and it wasn't Vernon's doing. In fact, the man had gone as white and as walls once were and was starting to shake badly. 'Dementors,' he thought dimly. But where was the chill? The screams of his parents? Cedric's last moments? Sirius's… no, that was still too painful, too raw. Weakly, he began to twitch, trying to summon the strength to stand and fight. Uncle Vernon may not have been the nicest person, but he and Snape had been the only two to really see him as he was; a murdering, worthless, freak. Such intuition couldn't just be wiped out…
Slowly, painfully, he worked himself into a sitting position only to be confronted with…Albus Dumbledore?! There was no mistaking it. Even with out his glasses, Harry could easily recognize the man's garish robes, shockingly out of place in this blood filled room. I'll have to clean this before tomorrow. Too weak and stunned to do much of anything else, Harry just watched as Dumbledore slammed the larger muggle man against the already dented wall. It was fascinating to watch Vernon receive what he had dished out, Harry still didn't think that the man deserved it. He must have made some type of noise because Albus - Professor Dumbledore - he reminded himself, looked over sharply before stupefying the muggle with a wave of a hand as the now concerned man made his way over to the dying teenager's side. Harry gathered his resources, because the man had to know… Harry wasn't the chosen one. Neville was. After all, there were other ways to be marked, and just because the chubby boy didn't have a scar didn't mean a thing. He was still one of the most powerful students in Harry's class, and the Headmaster had to know that.
Albus knelt beside the distorted view of his favourite pupil and was unable to stop the tears from forming in his eyes. Gently, he put an arm underneath the boy's shoulders to add support, and was unable to stop the pain in his heart as the child struggled with something. The wizened wizard leaned his head closer, and his heart stop as he finally heard what his poor, beloved child had to say.
"Professor, I'm sorry..."