Hope you enjoy the chapter! Please R&R and come visit me at my tumblr - erikablair
Harry woke with a start, the remnants of his dream fading from his mind. The taste of dirt filled his mouth, and Harry felt the cold fingers of the wind trace his thinly clothed form. A violent shiver wracked through him, his breath coming out like puffs of smoke in the frigid air. The moon was high in the sky, faintly illuminating the park around him. The trees stood tall and barren, with only a few leaves desperately clinging to the branches. Leaning heavily against the tree behind him, Harry slowly pushed himself onto his feet. He noticed he could now open both eyes and touching his face; he noted that the swelling from his cousin's attacks had dramatically reduced. The sharp, stabbing pains throughout his body had faded to a dull ache. Gently touching his neck, he hissed; it was still incredibly tender and even taking shallow breaths was difficult.
Brushing himself off, Harry began the slow trek home, letting his feet guide him as he lost himself within his thoughts. The house was quiet, and no lights were shining in the windows suggesting that everyone was in bed. Glancing at the front door, Harry felt his heart give a painful lurch; he couldn't risk it. Slinking to the side of the house, Harry pulled himself up the same way he escaped, making it back into his room with little effort. His room looked undisturbed, and testing his door, he found it to be locked from the outside. It seemed they hadn't checked on whether he was in his room when they had locked him in. Checking the floor outside the flap they had installed on the door, he found they hadn't even given him a cold tin of soup. He wondered if it was in punishment for some perceived wrongdoing or if they just forgot; neither would surprise him.
Harry plodded to the bed, collapsing into it. Harry felt wrung out; he was cold, exhausted, and numb. Toeing off his shoes, Harry didn't even bother to change before covering himself with his thin blanket. Harry tossed and turned for a few minutes as sleep continued to elude him. His nerves felt raw, exposed as images of last night played in his mind, the phantom touches of his Uncle grating against him like sandpaper; Harry shuddered. His agitation continued to increase, his small fidgets turning into more significant movements as he tried to pull himself back into the moment. An image of the diary cut through his thoughts, and Harry sighed in relief. That was how he could achieve silence.
Hanging over the side of the bed, Harry lifted the loose floorboard and grasped the diary, grabbing a pen and turning on the small light on his bedside as he positioned himself. Placing the book in his propped-up lap, he turned to the first page and froze. It was blank. He hurriedly flicked through the book, thinking that maybe he wrote it in a different place in the diary. Taking a deep breath, Harry flicked back to the beginning of the journal and ran his fingers between the front cover and the first page to see if he could feel any signs of pages having been ripped out of the book. He couldn't feel anything to indicate as such.
Glancing at the diary inquisitively, Harry placed the first page between his thumb and forefinger and began gently rubbing the page. The paper felt slightly thicker than average and was slightly rougher as well, the pages yellowed with age, but it was well-preserved and didn't seem to have even been used. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary with the book, so where was his writing? Had he dreamed of writing in the diary? Imagined it? He slowly set his pen to the page and began writing, staring down at the words intently, wondering if they would somehow disappear. He knew his suspicions were ridiculous, but he still felt this cogent need to write and watch. He knew that somehow something would happen, something that would change everything.
The words began to dissolve from the page, almost like someone was plucking them off one by one like someone was erasing them from the other side. Harry held his breath. How was this happening? Was this some sort of joke item? How was this possible? All thoughts halted when he started seeing elegant scrawling on the page he had just written. It was just two words that made Harry's heart stop.
'Hello Harry'
Harry arrived at St Brutus with deep bags under his eyes, his typically messy hair even more chaotic than usual. Caleb was waiting just outside the gates for Harry but hurried over when he saw his condition. The bruises on his neck were still a deep bruising purple and black, contrasting against his pale skin considerably. Caleb began cataloguing Harry's state, taking in his dishevelled appearance. He noted with critical eyes that Harry had sewn new buttons to his shirt, the thread not matching the others, his defensive, curling posture, his slightly glassed gaze and finally, the large hand-shaped bruises encircling Harry's delicate neck.
"Harry," Caleb said softly, watching Harry's reactions closely.
Harry flinched at the sound before his eyes focused on his friend, "Caleb," Harry rasped, giving his friend a brittle smile, "Sorry that I won't be much of a conversationalist today."
Caleb's smile had a hard edge to it when he smiled back, but it softened considerably when he noticed Harry chewing on his lip. It was a nervous tic he had that he'd never been quite able to hide, often leaving his lips raw and even more red than they were naturally. Caleb slowly reached out and fondly pulled Harry's bottom lip from under his teeth. Before the tender moment could stretch, Caleb slapped Harry's back and started steering them into the schoolyard, distracting Harry from the predatory and speculative eyes that followed him with tales of his weekend. Harry gave a raspy laugh at one of the more embarrassing things that happened to him, a sound that made Caleb grimace.
Caleb had no doubts as to who had given Harry the marks on his neck, who hurt him so severely he could barely speak. He doubted anyone else noticed but, in the time he had known Harry, he didn't think he'd ever seen him not injured in some way, and as the years passed, the wounds seemed to get more severe with less care given to who would see it or the possible conclusions that could be drawn.
He'd had some men of his father's follow Vernon once, scope out how easy it would be to make him disappear. But from the small things Harry had told him about his home life, it seemed that Vernon was the primary breadwinner of the household, and he didn't want to make life anymore painful for him. He knew that he could look after them, or at the very least Harry, he had no compunctions in leaving the other Dursley's to the wolves, but he knew Harry was too proud to accept that level of help from him. He refused to be seen as weak by anyone, even him; he didn't want pity; he didn't want a knight in shining armour to save him. There was no doubt that Harry wanted freedom from his cage, but he wanted it on his own terms, not given to him with strings attached. At least he accepted the small help that Caleb gave him; Caleb just wished Harry would take more.
