A/N: Hello everyone! Well, it's finally here! Sorry for the long wait. But hopefully the size of this chapter will help to make up for the delay. Believe it or not, this chapter was actually supposed to be even longer, but I decided to split it into two parts so that I could get this update out to you all tonight. Don't worry. Part 2 of this chapter should be out soon. Probably within a week or so.

But for now, I hope you all enjoy this next installment!

One quick warning: This chapter contains child abuse.

Harry's thoughts were in turmoil.

He couldn't do it, could he? It was impossible. He didn't know any healing magic. At least anything that could possibly be of any use to Aunt Marge. He was only a second year, after all. The most he could probably manage on his own was to brew a cauldron of balm for the most superficial of cuts and scrapes. And that was only because he had spent so much extra time with Snape, brewing potions in the evenings.

But Aunt Marge didn't have any cuts or scrapes. And so even if Harry had possessed all the necessary ingredients and equipment to make the balm, it would do him little good. Because Aunt Marge's injury was far more serious. The woman was paralyzed. Harry wasn't even sure Madam Pomfrey would know how to help her.

The young boy let out a sigh as he shifted into a more comfortable position on the small, filthy cot in his cupboard. He pulled his raggedy old blanket tighter around his shoulders as his body shivered from the cold and the thoughts continued to swirl around in his head.

There was of course, another problem with accepting the Dursleys' deal. Even if by some miracle he could find a spell in one of his second-year textbooks that might be helpful, he still couldn't do anything about it. He had already received one letter from the ministry over the summer, and the message had been abundantly clear. One more trace of magic at the Dursley household, and he would immediately be expelled from Hogwarts.

So he couldn't do it. That much he knew. But what happened if Hedwig showed up sometime in the next couple weeks? Harry had no doubt that Uncle Vernon would make good on his threat to hurt her if Harry refused to help Aunt Marge. Of course, even if he agreed to help, Uncle Vernon would likely harm the bird anyway if Marge didn't show any signs of improvement.

But even if he wanted to, he couldn't do it. There was just no possible way. But if only…

Another sigh escaped Harry's lips as he tried to pull his blanket even tighter around himself. He tried to imagine for a moment what might happen if he could miraculously cure Aunt Marge. Maybe…just maybe…the Dursleys might finally…

But no. That was stupid. The Dursleys would never accept magic. Even if he was somehow able to help Marge…

But…what if they did? That was the only reason they had ever hated him, wasn't it? Because they were distrustful of magic, and he was a wizard? Maybe…if he could just show them that magic could be used for good…

Then they would have no reason to hate him anymore…right?

But he couldn't do it, he had to remind himself. He didn't know how to fix her.

But even as that thought began to repeat itself over and over in his mind, the young boy found himself reaching for the lid of his trunk. Thankfully, Uncle Vernon hadn't put a lock on the trunk before throwing it into the cupboard with his nephew.

"It can't hurt to look," he whispered to himself, withdrawing his charms textbook from the top of the pile of belongings that had been stacked haphazardly in his trunk.

He opened to the table of contents, once more adjusting his position so that the book rested directly underneath the single, dim lightbulb dangling from the ceiling. Then he paused and reached into his pocket.

His hand brushed past the coin Snape had given him without a second thought. Instead, he withdrew his mother's picture as a sad smile came to his face and leaned the old photograph up against the wall across from him.

"Sometimes I work better when I have someone to keep me company," he explained to his photograph-mother, as he absently began flipping through the pages of his book.

Lily gave no indication that she had heard her son speak, but simply smiled up at the boy as she always had.

Harry returned the smile with a nod before turning his attention to the textbook, settling in for what was likely to be a long day.

"Harry?"

"Huh?" Harry looked around to where Ron was staring at him from the other side of the library table.

"I asked if I could see the last bit of your notes from History of Magic," Ron repeated. "I kind of started daydreaming at the end of class there."

Join the club, Harry thought to himself as he reached down into his bag to retrieve the parchment he had just deposited there. His face turned slightly red, however, when he unfolded the parchment and placed it on the table between them.

"Uh, sorry about the handwriting," Harry mumbled, embarrassed. "I was daydreaming a bit, too."

Ron raised his eyebrows as he stared down at the nearly-illegible scrawl. "That must have been some daydream."

Harry nodded, avoiding eye contact with his friend.

The truth was that writing with his left hand was exceedingly difficult. But until his right wrist healed, he really didn't have much choice. He was just going to have to make do.

"Oh good. You're here!" Hermione said, appearing from around a bookcase and sliding into the seat next to Harry.

"You told us to meet you in the library," Ron pointed out. "Why wouldn't we be here?"

"Because you hate the library and you rarely listen to me," Hermione stated simply, dropping her schoolbag to the floor beside her.

Then, before Ron could say anything in reply, the girl leaned forward and began speaking again in a whisper. "I think there's something wrong with the Polyjuice Potion."

"What do you mean?" Ron questioned.

"I went to check on it this morning, and the cauldron appeared to be half-empty," Hermione explained.

"What do you mean?" Ron asked. "Did the potion evaporate or something?"

"Polyjuice potion doesn't just evaporate," Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Well how am I supposed to know that?"

"It was right there in Moste Potente Potions—"

"Okay, fine," Ron interrupted, raising his hands in surrender before Hermione could start rattling off the text from the potion book from memory. "So, what happened then?"

"I can't be sure," the girl admitted. "It's almost as though someone just scooped some of it up and took it away."

"But that's impossible," Ron declared. "Nobody else knows about it but us," he gestured to the three of them sitting around the table. "Well, us and Myrtle. But she promised not to tell anyone."

"I know," Hermione said, the frown deepening on her face. "Besides, if somebody else did find it, why would they take some of the potion and leave the rest on the bathroom floor? What use would they have for it? Why wouldn't they have informed a teacher?"

"Well, not everyone's a tattle-tale like you," Ron grumbled, almost to himself.

"This is serious, Ronald," Hermione snapped. "If somebody else knows about the Polyjuice, all three of us are in danger of being expelled."

Ron visibly paled at that statement. "Yeah, I guess you're right. So, what do we do?"

"For now? Nothing. I think we should wait a little while before we even consider consuming the potion. I want to be sure that I didn't make a mistake in the brewing process."

Ron nodded. "That's fine with me. What do you think, Harry?"

Harry had remained completely silent during the exchange about the Polyjuice Potion, the color steadily draining from his face with every word that was spoken. But at Ron's question, he forced himself to speak around the slowly-forming lump in his throat.

"Yeah. Let's wait," he said quietly, not quite able to meet his friends' eyes.

"Are you okay, Harry?" Hermione suddenly sounded concerned. "You don't look well."

The expression on Harry's face was almost panicked for a moment. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"You're pale as a ghost for one," Hermione answered. "And I have yet to see you eat a proper meal since term started."

Harry forced a small smile on his face, attempting to appear completely at ease. "I guess I'm still trying to digest Christmas dinner."

Ron laughed at the joke, but Hermione merely pursed her lips, unamused. "What is that?" she suddenly asked, pointing to the piece of parchment lying on the table between the two boys.

"Harry was just letting me see his notes from Binns' class," Ron explained, as Hermione snatched up the paper before Harry even had the chance to reach for it. "But I think he was just as distracted as I was."

Hermione glanced over the parchment before eying Harry critically, her gaze almost immediately dropping to the hand the boy was holding very carefully against his side.

"You were writing with your left hand today," she stated plainly. "You're right-handed."

"No, I wasn't—"

"Don't lie Harry. I saw you. What's wrong with your hand? Why haven't you gone to Madam Pomfrey yet?"

"Because nothing's wrong," Harry said defensively, suddenly getting to his feet and grabbing up his own schoolbag.

"Harry—"

"You're not my mother, Hermione!" Harry suddenly snapped, causing several heads to turn in their direction from another table several feet away.

"Just – leave me alone," the Gryffindor nearly whispered then, ducking his head and hurrying away, doing his best to ignore how his body ached when he moved too quickly.

It was completely silent for one long moment then.

"What was that?" Ron finally asked, completely baffled by his friend's sudden outburst and abrupt departure.

"I don't know," Hermione answered, her eyes set on the spot where Harry had just disappeared behind a bookshelf. "But I'm really starting to worry."

Harry stumbled into the Dursleys' kitchen completely exhausted. He had been up all night reading his textbooks - looking for something, anything that could help. He had been determined not to sleep until he had found a solution, or at the very least, an idea for what he could do about Aunt Marge. But eventually, his head had begun to incessantly pound, and his eyes had become too heavy. And he had had no choice but to succumb to an uneasy slumber.

Only to be jolted awake a mere hour or so later by Aunt Petunia throwing the cupboard door open and demanding that he come to the kitchen immediately.

And so now here he stood, directly in front of Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, fighting to keep his eyes open as he waited for one of them to start speaking.

"So what's it going to be, Potter?" Vernon finally demanded. "Are you finally going to pay us back for all these years we've provided you with food and clothes and a roof over your head?"

"I want to help," Harry answered. "But I just don't know if I—"

Vernon lurched forward then and grabbed Harry by the collar of his shirt, positioning his face so that it was mere inches from Harry's own. "I don't know that you quite appreciate the situation you currently find yourself in," the man growled, giving his nephew a little shake. "We were done with you. When you last left this house, it was with the understanding that you would not be welcome to return. Ever. Now you've been given this one opportunity to change our minds and you don't know if you can do it?"

Harry swallowed. "You'd really let me stay?" The question was barely above a whisper, but it was filled with so much hope.

Aunt Petunia scoffed as Vernon finally released Harry and stood straight once more. "Not if you refuse to help us with this one thing."

"I'll try – I mean… I'll do what I can," Harry responded. "I just need to do a little research—"

"How long will that take?" Petunia interrupted, crossing her arms.

Harry just shook his head. "I don't know. But…I'll go as fast as I can."

"Good," Vernon responded. "In the meantime, you'll earn your keep by helping your aunt with chores around the house. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Uncle Vernon."

"And you will also help take care of Marge," the man added. "Anything she needs. Got it?"

Harry nodded. "Yes, sir."

The next couple days on Privet Drive were a blur.

In many ways, it was just like old times, with Harry taking on all of the cooking and the cleaning and the random household tasks. Harry made sure to work as quickly and as efficiently as he could, in an effort to escape the worst of Uncle Vernon's temper. Some days were more successful than others on that front, as evidenced by a few fresh bruises on Harry's arms and back. But this was all familiar territory. And, as unpleasant as it was, Harry felt like he could have dealt with this routine for the duration of the holidays… If that had been all he had to deal with.

But on top of the ridiculously long list of chores Harry was always working on for Aunt Petunia, Aunt Marge seemed dead-set on running Harry ragged.

The woman was constantly giving the young boy orders, such as to prepare elaborate meals for her, or to take Ripper for a walk in the freezing cold. And when she was bored, she liked to call Harry to come fluff her pillows and clean her small bedroom, just so she would have the chance to hurl insults and disparaging remarks at the child as she watched him work in silence.

Marge was in a particularly foul mood today, though Harry had no idea why. But the woman took just one look at the steak Harry had just placed before her and scoffed.

"I see it was far too much to ask that you actually cook something properly for once," the woman stated, taking a sip of water from the cup on her bedside table.

Harry narrowed his eyes, completely fed up with this miserable woman. "How could you possibly know it's not cooked right if you haven't even cut into it yet?" he asked, crossing his arms.

"Why you insolent little wretch!" the woman screeched. And a moment later, Harry had to duck out of the way as Marge hurled the half-full glass of water straight at Harry's head.

The glass narrowly missed its target and shattered against the wall. Harry sighed and took a deep breath, then, hoping that none of the Dursleys would come running at the noise. Because there was no doubt in his mind that he would be blamed for this mess.

"Just as I suspected," Marge said a moment later, and Harry turned his attention from the broken glass back to the angry woman, who had just used her fork and knife to cut into the steak.

"You didn't cook it long enough," the woman declared. And a moment later, the plate was flying through the air, just barely missing the side of Harry's face as it, too, shattered against the wall.

The effect was almost immediate. There were suddenly pounding footsteps on the staircase as Uncle Vernon lumbered up to the second floor, and Harry didn't even have a chance to consider making a run for it.

The man burst into the tiny bedroom, his face even more purple than usual. The Dursleys had been invited to a Christmas party at Vernon's work, and It was obvious that the man had been struggling to put on his necktie before the sound of shattering glass had brought him racing up the steps, for he now held the garment in a tight fist at his side, the collar of his dress shirt completely askew.

"WHAT is going on in here?" the man bellowed, unsurprisingly directing the words straight at his nephew.

But it was Aunt Marge who responded, pointing one large finger at Harry. "That boy never does anything right! I ask him to do one simple thing for me, and he just can't seem to mange it! He does it on purpose! I know he does!"

Vernon turned to his nephew, then. "Downstairs! NOW!"

Harry bolted towards the door. But before he crossed the threshold, he heard Aunt Marge call out to him once more. "I expect you to cook me another steak, tonight! And properly this time!"

"Yes, ma'am," Harry answered, hurrying from the room and down the stairs.

When he reached the ground floor, he spotted Aunt Petunia touching up her makeup in the mirror that hung in the hallway. "Duddykins, are you ready?" the woman called. "We don't want to be late."

A groan came from the living room a moment later then as the television was suddenly turned off, and Harry thought it would be best to make his way to the kitchen before Dudley made an appearance in the hallway. Because the last thing he needed right now was for his cousin to accuse him of looking at him wrong. Vernon was in a terrible mood as it was.

Aunt Petunia didn't even acknowledge her nephew as he hurried past her into the kitchen. This didn't really surprise Harry, though. The woman had barely spoken to him at all since he had arrived back home.

The boy felt his heart rate start to speed up as he went to get a glass of water. All he could hope for at this point was that Uncle Vernon "wouldn't have time" to deal with him right now. They had a party to get to after all. So maybe he would be spared from Vernon's wrath.

At least for now.

A couple minutes passed. Harry opened the refrigerator and looked inside. It was only then that he realized that they were completely out of steak. Aunt Marge had already consumed all the meat in the house. Just perfect. Now what was he supposed to do?

"What are you waiting for?" a deadly voice suddenly rang out, causing Harry to jump nearly a foot in the air. He spun around then, only to see Uncle Vernon moving into the kitchen and over to the stove, reaching over to turn the appliance on.

"Um… we're out of steak," Harry answered quietly. "I'm not sure what to make for Aunt Marge instead."

"That's not what I meant," Vernon responded. And Harry could only frown in confusion.

"I don't under—"

"Why isn't she better yet?" the man practically shouted then. "You've been here for days! And in that time, you've made no attempt to uphold your end of the bargain!"

"I am trying!" Harry attempted to defend himself. "I've been doing as much research as I can! But it's only been a couple days and there's always so much work to do around here. If I could just have a little more time during the day—"

"Enough!" Vernon roared. "I don't want to hear your excuses, Potter! You were never planning on helping her, were you? In fact, I think you enjoy seeing her lying in that bed, completely helpless. I bet you think it's funny, don't you?"

"No!" Harry cried, as Vernon suddenly lunged forward and grabbed his wrist in a crushing grip.

"Well, I for one am done with the games, Potter," the man jerked the boy forward then, practically dragging him closer to the stovetop as his grip on the boy's wrist began to tighten even more.

"What are you doing?" Harry asked, suddenly feeling panicked. "Uncle Vernon, stop. Please!"

But the man didn't listen. He simply yanked at the small wrist until the boy's hand was positioned directly above the burner that was quickly heating up.

"Please, no!" Harry practically screamed, terrified. "I'll try harder! I promise!"

Uncle Vernon forced the boy's hand down even closer to the stovetop, until it was no more than a mere inch away from the surface.

"Please stop," Harry begged, his eyes now brimming with tears.

And then suddenly, Vernon leaned down so that he was practically hissing into Harry's ear. "You have until tomorrow evening. Do I make myself clear, Potter?"

Harry nodded vigorously. "Yes, sir," he whispered, the terror clear in his voice.

And just like that, Vernon released him. And Harry stumbled backwards, his only thought being to put some distance between himself and the stove.

"Vernon, are you ready?" Petunia's voice drifted into the kitchen from the hallway. "We're already late."

"Yes, dear," Vernon responded, still glaring at his nephew, who was now clinging to the countertop and doing his best to calm his panicked breathing.

"Don't do anything stupid while we're out," the man said then, finally reaching over to switch off the burner on the stove.

And with that, the man turned on his heel and stormed out of the kitchen. Harry could hear the sounds of the Dursleys putting on their coats in the hallway before the front door finally swung open and was quickly slammed shut again.

Harry slowly sank to the floor in relief, trying but failing to hold back the tears. His heart was still pounding, racing along in his chest as he cradled his newly-bruised wrist in his other hand.

He sat there for a few moments on the kitchen floor, utterly at a loss for what to do. Maybe he should run. Just gather up his school things and go.

But where to? There was no other place for him to go. And besides, if he got caught, he'd just be sent straight back to the Dursleys. And then Uncle Vernon would really be mad.

Harry closed his eyes and sighed. "If I could just find the right spell—" he whispered to himself. "Then everything would be alright. I know it would."

A moment later then, Harry felt something soft and warm settle onto his lap. He opened his eyes then and managed a small smile through his tears. "Hey, Ripper," the boy said quietly, slowly beginning to stroke the top of the bulldog's head. "Where did you come from?"

The dog gave no indication that he had even heard Harry speak. He simply rested his chin on the young boy's knee and closed his eyes.

And the pair simply stayed like that on the floor, well into the night.

"Ow! Watch where you're aiming that thing, Harry!" Ron hissed.

Once again pulled out of his daydream, Harry looked over to see his friend shaking out a hand that now appeared to be tinged slightly blue.

"You're supposed to be turning the water to ice, not me," the redhead emphasized, when Harry still seemed to be slightly confused.

And then suddenly, Harry made the connection. "I'm sorry, Ron!" he said quickly, dropping his wand on the desk in the back of the Charms classroom.

They had been practicing both freezing and melting charms on the glasses of water that had been set out before them. But then Harry's mind had started to wander. And apparently, his wand's aim had as well.

Hermione immediately grabbed Ron's hand and cast a warming charm. "Better?" she asked.

Ron nodded. "Thanks."

"I'm so sorry," Harry continued to apologize. "I didn't mean—"

"No harm done," Ron interrupted with a little laugh. "At least it was the freezing charm and not the melting one. Somehow I think that would have been a little less pleasant."

A sudden image of Uncle Vernon holding his hand above the hot stove entered Harry's mind, and he shivered involuntarily.

Hermione leaned forward then to get a good look at the boy sitting on the other side of Ron. "Harry, if there's something wrong—"

"For the millionth time, Hermione, there isn't," Harry suddenly became defensive.

"You could have seriously injured Ron just now," the girl countered in a frustrated whisper. "I don't know where your head's been at the last couple days, but you're not going to convince me that you're fine, Harry. Because clearly you're not."

Harry looked away as he shook his head. "You're wrong."

"No." Hermione stated clearly. "I'm not."

It was silent for a moment. And then Ron finally spoke up. "I'm with Hermione on this one, Harry. You haven't been acting right. You don't eat. You're constantly distracted. The littlest noises seem to make you jump."

"And Madam Pomfrey needs to take a look at that hand you've been cradling since we met you on the train," Hermione put in.

Harry suddenly stood up then. It was all just too much. He needed to get out of there. Now.

"Mr. Potter? Is something the matter?" Professor Flitwick asked from his position at the front of the classroom.

"I just need to go to the bathroom," Harry answered.

"Class is nearly over," the professor pointed out. "Can it wait?"

"No," Harry shook his head. "It really can't, sir."

The little man frowned but gave Harry a quick nod. "Alright, then. You may go."

Harry quickly gathered up his bag and slung it over his shoulder, ignoring the curious gazes of some of the other students in the class. And in the next moment, he was hurrying towards the exit, without so much as a backwards glance in his friends' direction.

Hermione sighed as she watched the boy go, exchanging a concerned look with Ron.

"We have to do something," the girl said simply.

Ron nodded in agreement. "Yeah. But what?"

It was time. There would be no more delaying the inevitable. This was his one and only chance.

He just wished he knew what he was supposed to do.

Uncle Vernon practically shoved Harry into the small bedroom that now belonged to Aunt Marge and slammed the door shut behind him. Apparently, he had no interest in being in the room when Harry was doing his "funny business."

Not that Harry was even sure that there would be any "funny business." Because the reality was, he still had no idea how he was supposed to help Marge. Because in all of the pages in all of the textbooks stacked in his trunk, he hadn't managed to find even one single solitary passage that could be of use.

At this point, it was going to take a miracle.

As the sound of Uncle Vernon's footsteps quickly faded down the staircase, Harry thought about all those times he had performed accidental magic before he had even known that he was a wizard. It wasn't something he had ever been able to control, though. It had usually only happened when he was in the most embarrassing or desperate of situations.

Harry was certainly feeling desperate at this point. But that didn't necessarily mean that something would happen. Especially now that he had been learning how to control his magic at school. He thought he remembered Hermione saying once that when students started at Hogwarts, their tendency to perform accidental magic decreased dramatically within the first year.

"Well, what are you standing there for?" Marge suddenly barked loudly, reaching for the near-empty wine glass on her bedside table. Harry noticed that the bottle of wine sitting next to the glass was almost empty as well.

He had to suppress a groan.

"I don't believe I called for you."

"I…was just wondering how you were doing tonight," Harry quickly invented, slowly moving closer to the bed. "I thought maybe you could use some company."

Aunt Marge's eyes almost immediately narrowed in suspicion. "Thought you would… come and laugh at me, did you? Come to point your finger and smirk at the poor crippled woman?"

Harry shook his head, trying to stay calm. "No, Aunt Marge. Really."

"I don't believe you," the woman practically slurred, draining the remaining contents of her wine glass in one swallow.

"You…think it's funny…that I'll…never walk again," Marge accused, pointing her finger at Harry.

"But you can walk again," Harry answered, resting his hands on the side of the bed.

After all, hadn't the Dursleys said that Marge's doctor thought it was all in her head?

"Maybe you should just try—" the boy started again.

"I knew it! You came here…to taunt me and to… watch me struggle!" Aunt Marge hissed, barely coherent in her wine-induced stupor. "You're a horrible…ungrateful little wretch. Just like your…good-for-nothing parents…Drunks, the both of them!"

And just like that, all of the fear and anxiety that had been coursing through Harry's body suddenly morphed into something else entirely.

And all he could feel was an intense and unmitigated anger.

"The only drunk around here is you!" the boy shouted, before he could even think about stopping himself.

And a second later, Aunt Marge lunged for him.

Harry quickly moved back and out of the way, pressing himself up against the wall as the large woman lurched to the side and tumbled right off the bed. She hit the floor with a loud thud and let out a scream of frustration.

There were pounding footsteps on the stairs. But Harry didn't even have a chance to think about that because, within the next second, Aunt Marge began slowly lifting into the air as her entire body began to swell up, inflating like a balloon.

The woman tried to scream something as she floated up near the ceiling, but her speech was even more garbled and slurred than it had been before.

And then the bedroom door swung open.

"What have you done to her?" Vernon screamed, his eyes immediately drawn upward. Close behind him, Aunt Petunia let out a shriek as a bony hand flew to her mouth in shock.

"I didn't mean to—" Harry stammered, still pressed flat against the wall.

"Put her back!" the man bellowed, taking a step towards his nephew and aiming a fist in the young boy's direction.

Harry gasped as he lost his balance and fell to his knees, his cheek now stinging where Vernon's fist had made contact.

"Put her back!" the large man repeated, as Aunt Marge flailed around in the air above them, trying but failing to call for help.

"I don't know how!" Harry said desperately, already raising his arms to shield himself from the blows he knew would be coming soon.

Vernon reached down then and hauled Harry to his feet, giving the boy a violent shake as his face turned bright purple.

"You better figure it out, boy! Now!"

And just like that, Marge's body suddenly dropped, bouncing off of the bed and collapsing in a heap on the floor as her body started deflating once more.

"Marge!" Petunia screeched, hurrying to the larger woman's side and kneeling next to her.

Marge groaned, but within seconds managed to pull herself into a seated position, leaning heavily against the wall on the opposite side of the room from where Harry stood.

"He…he…tried to kill…" Marge slurred, pointing towards Harry. "I don't know how but…"

And before Harry could respond, Uncle Vernon was hauling him out of the room and towards the stairs.

"Please, Uncle Vernon, I didn't mean to! It was an accident!" Harry cried, trying but failing to pull away from the larger man's grasp.

"Let's see how you like falling helplessly through the air, boy," Vernon hissed in his nephew's ear.

"No!" Harry shouted. "Please!"

But it was too late. With a shove from Vernon, Harry completely lost his balance and, in the next moment, went tumbling down the stairs.

When he landed at the bottom, Harry's breath instantly hitched, and his mouth opened in silent agony as he heard a distinct crack.

He had landed at an awkward angle on his already-bruised wrist.

And he could hear Uncle Vernon's footsteps, slowly making his way down the stairs behind him.

"Back for more potion, Harry?" Myrtle asked, watching as the Gryffindor placed his bag on the bathroom floor and withdrew several small empty bottles from the front pocket.

"Just a bit more," the boy answered. "You won't tell anyone, will you, Myrtle?"

"Who am I going to tell?" the ghost asked, watching curiously as Harry uncorked the first bottle and dipped it into the disgusting concoction that was the Polyjuice Potion. "I do wonder what you need it for, though. Your friends don't seem to know that you've been taking some."

"Yeah, I don't want to worry them," Harry said quietly. "But it's really not a big deal."

"If you say so," Myrtle shrugged, before turning around and taking a dive into the nearest toilet. She hadn't sounded all that convinced, Harry thought to himself.

But he didn't have time to dwell on that now.

Harry worked as quickly as his aching body would allow, filling each of the bottles and then carefully placing them back into his bag. Until he got to the last one.

Knowing that he was due for another dose in the next few minutes, Harry reached up and plucked a couple of hairs from his head and dropped them into the horrible concoction.

Then, before he had the chance to think too much about it, the boy raised the bottle to his lips and downed the thick, disgusting liquid in one gulp.

Harry coughed and gagged, hurrying over to a sink and quickly turning on the tap. Using his hand as a makeshift cup then, he bent his head over the sink and downed several gulps of cold water.

It was several long moments before the taste was finally rinsed from his mouth. But finally, Harry raised his head to get a look at himself in the mirror.

And his breath suddenly caught in his throat as he saw the reflection of the bathroom behind him.

And he suddenly realized that he was no longer alone.

A/N: So what did you think? Any ideas who is in the room with Harry?

Once again, I am planning to have Part 2 of this chapter out within a week or so. I'm going to set my target date for August 23, but I may have to adjust depending on how my schedule shakes out.

As always, thanks for reading!

-Ailee17

August 15, 2019