Summer

Harry was tired. Harry was always tired, this summer. There wasn't anything to wake him up, not from the strange fog that covered him. He felt weighted down, like his heart weighed as much as a small elephant and if he wasn't careful, it would drag him down while he tried valiantly to stay above the surface- this was interesting, as he also felt empty, hollow, used up- he didn't have anything more to give. And yet they kept asking, and he kept trying and trying to give- he was afraid he'd give so much of himself away that he'd vanish, like Sirius behind the veil. Just disappear..

Aunt Marge was staying for the summer, with two of her favorite dogs. Harry laughed at them- they weren't real dogs, not like Sirius had been- if he ever got a dog, he wanted a large, black one named Snuffles- this was, of course, impossible. Just about everything he wanted that summer was impossible.

Aunt Marge hated him, of course- she always had. She smacked him as hard as Uncle Vernon had ever dared, then harder- she knew nothing of magic, nor warnings, and Harry said nothing to anybody- the last thing he needed was Moody showing up to inquire how he was, and if he was ready to fight the war- he wasn't. He never would be, he thought. Never, never, never....

The girl next door was named Daphne. Harry remembered her as one of his tormenters from childhood. She didn't remember him, except for as the dangerous young man next door. Her hair was long and silky, and obviously dyed shade of golden blonde. Her eyes were wide and brown, and her giggle innocent and obnoxious. She watched him over the fence while he worked on his Aunt's garden, chattering and flirting and giggling when he looked at her.

He lost his virginity to Daphne a few weeks before his birthday, among Aunt Petunia's flower beds. She was sweet and young, not quite fully developed but slender and soft to the touch. Harry kissed her and she tasted of strawberry lip gloss and mint. Her soft hair was scented of lavender, and her mascara smeared when Harry pushed into her and tears came softly to her eyes, even as she moaned and tossed like the world was ending. He was her first, she whispered into his ear. He was beautiful....

Aunt Marge slammed him into wall so hard that he broke his glasses, but he didn't bother trying to fix them- the world was nicer with out them, all blurred edges and soft curves. Daphne giggled and told him he looked funny without his glasses, he smirked and said that she was prettier. She didn't talk to him for days, but when no apology was forthcoming came and made up with a quickie on the side of the house.

Letter's from the Order were few and far between, and what little did come gave no information at all. His subscription to the Daily Prophet was useful, and he read avidly about the increasing attacks, people gone missing, that the dementors had left Azkaban, that he was expected to defeat Voldemort- his scar burned, and he let it, because what choice did he have? He could write to Dumbledore tomorrow about it... Learn occlumency tomorrow... Everything could happen tomorrow.

Aunt Marge caught him pressed up against the wall in the garden shed, Daphne kneeling between his legs. She beat him with Uncle Vernon's belt, despite mild protests from Aunt Petunia. Harry stared at his back in the mirror once she had finished, the welts painful and red against his pale skin. He wondered what would happen if he wrote the Order, and decided to do it later. It wasn't that big a deal, after all.

Daphne kissed the wounds and ran her tongue along the edges of his welts, whispering sweet nothings in his ears that he ignored. He took her forcefully, mouth bruising and claiming, and she responded with equal fervor. He bit his lip so hard it drew blood as her sharp pink nails raced down his wounded back. She said she was sorry, but he ate the words from her mouth, tongue claiming and taking.

He stood in the bathroom and stared at his still blurry reflection, the green eyes and messy black hair, tall and thin frame, slender seeker muscles. The red back, the limp cock, the bruises and scrapes from Aunt Marge and Daphne's nails. He thought he was ugly but didn't know for sure, not being able to see his sharp edges. He picked up Uncle Vernon's razor and pressed it against his wrists hard enough to draw blood. He wondered what it would be like to sink into darkness. To disappear into the abyss. Dudley pounded angrily at the door, and he dropped the razor into the sink. Tomorrow, maybe.

Daphne told him she loved him. He screamed at her that she shouldn't, she couldn't, he wasn't worth loving and everyone who loved him died. She cried, her tears making puddles on the soft ground. She wept that she loved him anyway, and he smacked her so hard she fell down, his handprint red on her cheek. He wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn't come.

Daphne never came back. He sent her a letter apologizing, and she never answered. Harry laid on his back in the flower beds where he had kissed her and loved her, and watched the blue, blue, sky. He raised a hand that looked enormously large against the expanse of sky, and envisioned himself hitting Daphne. Again, and again. He squinted, and then crushed the sun between his thumb and forefinger.

Angelina Johnson and her family were killed in a Death Eater attack. It made the front page of the newspaper, and Harry cut it carefully out using a pair of Aunt Petunia's scissors. He added it to his collection of articles- the Death Eater attacks that destroyed. He wanted to kill the monster, but couldn't even work up a proper rage.

He kicked Ripper on accident the next day. The old dog was trying to bite his foot. Aunt Marge was furious- she beat Harry so badly he could barely walk straight the next day. He wanted to write someone, but couldn't think what to say. There wasn't much to say, really. That night he dreamed of casting the cruciatus on Bellatrix, only in his dream she was Daphne, and he laughed when she screamed. He woke feeling cheerful, and then started to shake and couldn't stop. He pressed his nail hard into a bruise on his shoulder, hating himself.

His birthday came. He turned 16. Daphne smiled at him over the fence, but he looked away. The gifts from his friends were useless and mundane, except for the wand holster from Moody. He spent the afternoon practicing drawing his wand as quickly as possible, and when the night fell, he wanted to sneak out and howl at the full moon like Remus must be.

Charlie was kissed by a dementor, because Voldemort was after the dragons he worked with. Ron wrote him a short, brief, note, telling him he missed him and to please come home. Harry answered saying he was sorry, so sorry, but he couldn't leave. He told Hedwig to stay with Ron and keep him company, until he sent her back. She didn't come back, and Ron didn't write again.

Aunt Marge left two weeks before he returned to Hogwarts. As a goodbye gift she smacked him a few times and told him that he'd never be worth anything, and then packed away her two dogs and left. The household breathed a collective sigh of relief. Dudley collected 200 pounds from his dad. Harry relaxed on his bed and thought of the taste of Daphne's lip gloss.

Uncle Vernon dropped him off at the train station. Harry nodded a goodbye that was completely insincere, and pushed his trolley towards the platform. Dumbledore had written to say that all his school supplies had been purchased in advance, so there would be no need to bother with leaving his house. Hedwig was still with Ron. Harry boarded the train early, and picked an empty compartment towards the back. He wondered if Ron and Hermione would come looking for him.

It was Hermione, and Ginny, and Ron- he embraced his best friend and smiled at Hedwig, then quickly hugged the two girls. He was home, he thought with a sigh, feeling his tender back stretch and pull painfully. Finally, finally, he was home.

The End