Chapter 5

Day 1

The ceiling is grey. Just like the walls. Just like the ratty sheets. It's a grey world. She wishes that her prison was any other color. Black or white or yellow or blue. None of those colors would mean something to her. But it had to be grey.

Harriet stares straight up. She's sprawled out on the lumpy bed in one of Dudley's old, stained t-shirts; it fits her like a knee-length dress. Her ratty, dark hair is jumbled beneath her and on her chest and across half of her face, but she has no desire to brush it away. She has no desire to do anything. Harry doesn't know how long she lays staring up at the grey, but it must be hours. The sky outside her window has turned from dark to light.

She'd arrived at the Dursleys late last night. Knowing that there was nothing she could say to the headmaster to make him change his mind about leaving her there, she'd stayed silent. Dumbledore had apparated her to the Dursley's doorstep, escorted her to her room to drop off her belongings, and then left her with a somber goodbye. She wondered if he'd noticed the sorry state of her room or the locks on the door or the cat flap. He must have; It was pretty hard to miss. He hadn't mentioned it though.

Harry wonders if he'd said something about what happened to her to Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon. She had thought she heard them talking after he'd closed her door. She hopes that he hadn't. If they knew about it, they'd probably be even crueler than usual.

The clicking of shoes growing nearer draws her attention away from the ceiling. Her Aunt throws open the door with more force than necessary and sticks her long nose up in the air.

"Get up girl! Make yourself useful," Petunia spits from the doorway. "The garden needs a lot of work. That should take up most of the afternoon, and then you can start on supper."

The woman's sharp features are pinched even more so than usual, increasing her resemblance to a horse. It is clear why she is so irritated this morning. Generally, Harry had always been up at the crack of dawn, ready to start her chores. Her aunt rarely ever had to come wake her. But that had been then. Now, she just didn't care. Let her aunt be angry. Why does she care if the woman refuses to feed her?

"Did you hear me? Get outside, now!"

Harry rolls her eyes. Screw the chores and screw her. If she wants the garden cleared, she can do it her damn self.

"Alright then. No food for you. I won't have you freeloading anymore, and Vernon will hear about this," she says, slamming the door behind her. Harry hears the sharp click of the lock, and a bitter coldness settles in her chest.

She'd wanted the woman to get angry. She'd wanted her to leave. So why does she suddenly feel abandoned by her aunt? It's not as if she expected Aunt Petunia to comfort her or even to be kind. Still, Harry can't help but feel the rejection. The woman had barely glanced at her. It was almost like she had been too repulsed to look at her.

Harriet spends the rest of the day staring up at her ceiling, wondering how the hell she ended up here. Could she have done something to prevent this? Anything? Could she have saved Cedric? Could she have protected herself?

Harry knows she shouldn't, but she regrets sending Hedwig to the burrow. Something about talking to her pet had always made her feel a bit better. Now, she is trapped in this room. Alone. In the corner, where her owl's cage normally sat, is only a tall waste bucket that Aunt Petunia had left so she wouldn't have to let Harry out to use the bathroom. Harry scrunches up her nose at it in disgust.

Harry wishes so much for a mother. She wants, no needs, someone she can talk to. Someone she can confide in about everything. Someone that won't judge her or make her feel uncomfortable. She just wants someone to hold her.

A figure emerges out of the grey haze. Her face materializes from nothing until Harry can make out dark red curls and emerald eyes. The woman's mouth turns up slightly in a sad smile, and a sheen of tears make her striking eyes sparkle. Then, pale arms drop from the ceiling and curl around Harry. Long fingers run through Harry's messy hair, and she feels the warm breath of a mouth pressed to her ear. "It's okay, baby. Everything will be okay," the woman whispers, rocking her slowly back and forth.

Harry feels safe for the first time in over a week. A weight lifts from her chest. Breathing comes easily. She wants to stay here, where it's warm and safe, forever.

Then the door to Harry's room flies open, breaking her concentration. The beautiful woman dissolves into the grey. No. No! Come back, Harry pleads internally. But she's gone.

The coldness is back. Ice floods through Harry's veins. Her bottom lip begins to tremble uncontrollably. Her body arches with the force of a violent sob, and then she can't stop. Harsh sobs wrack her small body. Her stomach explodes with pain, and she wraps her arms around her middle to keep herself from tearing apart. She can't stop convulsing, but no tears fall from her eyes; somehow, this makes her feel worse.

"How dare you refuse to," a fuming voice begins.

Vernon stands in the doorway, an angry expression already planted on his face. However, when he catches sight of Harry, he looks slightly embarrassed, as if he's walked in on something he never intended to see. His wide face melts with confusion, and Harry withers under his gaze.

She wants to stop, but she continues to sob so hard that she can barely catch a breath. Humiliation washes over her, and she pulls the ratty blanket up over her head, so that Vernon can only see her outline quaking underneath the blanket. Soon she hears retreating footsteps and the door closes again. No one comes anywhere near it for the rest of the day.

Day 2

All night and throughout the morning Harry stares straight up, waiting for her savior to return. She keeps her gaze upward, barely blinking until her eyes burn with the effort. She doesn't dare let them drift closed for the fear that she will miss her. But it's her mother, so she knows she'll come back. Her mother wouldn't leave her again. So, Harry doesn't give up.

Her mother never comes.

Aunt Petunia shoves a can of tomato soup through the cat flap when the sun is nearly at its peak. She doesn't speak or knock. She just throws the can into the room and retreats.

Harry sighs with disappointment and gets up to retrieve it. Her limbs feel heavy and foreign, and she stumbles uncoordinatedly on her way to the door. Without hesitation, she yanks the lid off and drinks the liquid down like a shot. The cool soup slithers down her throat and lays in her stomach like lead. She wishes she hadn't eaten anything at all.

Then, it's back to the bed. Back to the grey. She removes the new glasses that Madame Pomfrey had given her in the infirmary; she'd rather not see the world so clearly anyway. She stares until her eyes glaze over with exhaustion. She stares until she's sure the grey isn't really ceiling, it's sky. She stares until she can practically see hazy clouds drifting in and out of her periphery.

And then, out of nowhere, appears an arm. Then another arm. And then, finally, a face. It's the same face from yesterday. The same vermillion curls. The same green eyes. But the expression is not one of sadness or comfort.

"Mum," Harry whispers, reaching for one of the outstretched hands.

The woman pulls her arm back as if anticipating a slap, and her blank face morphs into pure revulsion.

"Mum? Please…" Harry begs. "I need you. Please hold me."

Harry is confused. Why does her mum look at her so strangely? Has she done something wrong?

"Why would I do that?" The woman asks. "Why would I ever get near you? You disgust me."

Harry can't breathe. "No. Mum. You have to help me."

The woman scoffs and her eyes narrow maliciously. "Help you?" she spits. "I can't help you. You deserve to feel like this. You deserve everything."

Harriet can't speak. Her tongue is frozen to the roof of her mouth. "No," she mouths, but no noise escapes her.

Then her mother is laughing. Not a light, joyous laugh. It's a cold, dark sound. It reminds her of Him. "You deserve this. You're trash. You're worthless," she chuckles.

Her tone is sharp. Her words seem to cut straight through Harry's skin and into her stomach, turning and whirling around her insides, leaving her completely hollow.

She won't stop laughing. It gets louder. Faster. Closer. Her voice grows distorted. Muddled. Higher. It whirls all around, bouncing off the walls, echoing so loud that Harry throws her hands over her ears. It won't stop. Make it stop!

Harry clenches her eyes closed, convinced that that will make her mother disappear. And she does. But what's left in her place is much worse, and all the air leaves her lungs.

It's Him, Voldemort. His claw-like hands spring through the ceiling and tangle around her. She's trapped. His red eyes capture her green ones, and she can't look away. She can't close her eyes. His giggles bounce around the room and through her skin. The air in the room is gone. She's choking. She tries to open her mouth to suck in a breath, but she can't remember how. Her jaw is wired shut. It's growing hot, so hot. The sweltering air is swirling. His hot breath is on her neck. She can't breathe. Can't see. Can't think.

Harry's lungs burn and scream at her. Her eyes bulge from their sockets. Her hands fumble for something to claw at, some way to defend herself. She swings wildly. She tries to hit him, but her hands fly right through his flesh. Her failure amuses him. His eyes burn brighter with delight. His laughter grows louder.

He reaches for Harry's shirt and tears it open. The words. "Lord Voldemort" are bold and burning and out for everyone to see.

Harry fights with everything she has. But her arms won't move. Her legs won't move. Her head won't move. She's powerless.

And then, as if a switch has been flipped, Harry's jaw opens wide, and she lets out a long, shrill screech.

And then she wakes up, sweating and tangled in the blanket.

Day 3

Harry can't stay in this room any longer. The slightest glimpse of the color grey sends her shaking with fear. She's forced to keep her head down low, looking at the beige carpet. The floor is covered in dirt and dust and several stains that Harry can't identify. She lays her head down on the bristly carpet, not minding when it scratches her face.

Then she spots a tiny, rectangular object poking out from under the bed. Upon further inspection she recognizes it as a bobby pin. Last Summer, she had experimented with different ways to try and tame her hair. She'd snuck into Aunt Petunia's bathroom and grabbed a few things to try. None of them really made much difference. Her hair was naturally messy. It would always be wild and in her face.

Harriet picks up the object, and stares at it in wonder. She's heard that hair pins can be used to pick locks, and she's seen it done on one of Dudley's television shows before. She just has to shove it into the lock and jiggle it until the lock turns. It didn't look too hard on TV.

So, Harry waits at the door, still not looking at the grey walls. She scarfs down another can of soup that Aunt Petunia brings at noon. She watches as the carpet gradually darkens with the disappearance of the sun. Then, once the noises of the Dursleys settling into bed are long gone, Harry jams the pin into the keyhole.

It takes her longer to get the door open than she expects, but eventually she stands on the other side. She's finally free. But where should she go? The realization that she feels just as trapped in the rest of the house, crushes her brief feeling of hope.

For a moment, she considers just going back inside the room. She'll never be free from the things that have happened. They'll follow her like a shadow wherever she goes. In the dark and the light, inside or outside, at the Dursleys or at Hogwarts, it will be there. She can never escape.

But what if she could leave it behind? A dark thought drifts into her mind like billowing smoke. Finally knowing what she can do, she smiles and tiptoes down the hall. She creeps quietly down the stairs. Then she maneuvers her way through the darkness to the kitchen. As if gravity has suddenly shifted, Harry's feet pull her toward the utensil drawer in the corner of the room.

Her hands fumble for the knob on the drawer, and she yanks it open with more force than necessary. Her tiny fingers shoot out with excitement and curl around the handle of a knife, and she holds it up. She holds it up so high, that the moonlight streaming through the window shimmers on the surface of the blade. Its reflection lights a flame within her dark eyes.

Harry settles the knife above her pale, exposed arm. It feels much heavier than she thought it would, and her hand trembles in the air.

"I can do this," she whispers to herself and visualizes the path of the knife. It'll be quick, she thinks. A few deep cuts, and it'll all be over. All of it.

With a shaky breath she presses the cool tip of the dagger into her wrist, and then makes a quick slice.

"Shit," she stammers frantically and staggers backward. Her back slams into the counter and her hands flail, trying to find a way to stay upright. The knife escapes from her grasp and clangs to the floor. Her left arm slams into something solid, and sends it toppling off the countertop. It smashes on the ground, spreading shards.

Blood spills down the length of her arm, but it's not enough. Not enough blood. Her cut is too shallow. And she wants to cut again, but the burning in her arm is overpowered by the burning in her chest. The burn of two words. And she can't pick up the knife. The knife is like His knife. It is the same dagger, stained with her blood. And the mess is all around her. And there's no escape. She hears heavy footsteps on the stairs. They're coming. They're coming.

Harry crumples to the floor and draws her knees up to her chest. She places her hand over her wound. Not deep enough. Too shallow. She's failed. She buries her face behind lanky tendrils of dark hair, not bothering to look up when two figures enter the room.

The switch by the door is flipped, bathing her in light. She stays curled up pathetically on the floor, cradling her injured arm to her chest, so the gash is hidden.

"What the hell?" Vernon booms, lowering the baseball bat in his hands. "What are you doing out of your room girl? Stealing from us?"

"Vernon, she's broken my vase," Petunia squeals.

"Bet she used that freak stuff to break out," he growls, and his face turns a violent shade of red. "I won't tolerate that nonsense in my house!"

"What were you stealing?" Petunia asks. "I fed you today."

"Wasn't stealing," Harry mumbles.

Vernon scoffs. "What's that there?" He gestures to her left fist that's buried against Dudley's old t-shirt. "Show us your hands."

She holds up her right hand.

"The other one," he commands angrily.

Very slowly, Harry reveals her other hand. The crimson stain on her shirt becomes visible. New blood bubbles from her wound and trickles onto the floor.

Petunia gasps. Vernon spots the knife and bends down to retrieve it. He turns it over in his hands, staring at it in shock. Neither of the adults say a word.

Harry can't stand the silence. It roars in her ears. It stings her skin. And suddenly, she just wants to hear anything. She wants to hear yelling and screaming. She wants to hear insults and accusations. She wants to hear why. Why they can stand there not saying a word. Why they've never looked at her with anything but disgust. The words tumble from her lips before she can stop them.

"Aunt Petunia," she whispers barely loud enough for the woman to hear. Her aunt turns to her, seemingly annoyed that Harry has the audacity to speak to her. Her eyes widen as she takes in Harry's disheveled state. "Why do you hate me?"

The woman looks incredulously at her husband as if the answer is obvious. They share a panicked look, and she lets out a noise that's half a grunt and half a snort.

"Was there ever a time when you didn't? Did I do something? Please, just tell me. Please," Harry cries desperately.

Petunia's mouth opens and closes, but she utters no words. She turns away from the girl lying on the floor and takes a shaky step toward the doorway.

"If anything is missing in the morning, there'll be hell to pay. And clean up this mess," Vernon barks, dropping the knife onto the table before ushering a still-sputtering Petunia up the stairs.

Day 4

When the sun rises the next morning, Harry is seated outside in the damp soil, toiling over a weedy patch of flowers. She tears at the Earth with grimy fists, tossing pale green leaves over her shoulder.

She didn't bother to go back to her room last night. After her aunt and uncle had abandoned her in the kitchen, she'd cleaned up her mess. The blood was wiped away. The glass was swept. The only indication that something had happened was the stained knife still lying on the kitchen table.

Harry found that the manual labor had helped her keep her mind blank. When she had a task to focus on, she didn't think about her life. So as soon as she'd finished in the house, she'd walked barefoot through the backyard before dropping to her knees in front of the first rose bush. She hadn't stopped working since then.

She works through the sweat that sprouts on her brow. She works through the thorns that leave scratches up and down her arms. She works through the fatigue in her limbs. Like a robot, she moves mechanically, not stopping until her job is done.

Harry wipes the back of her hand across her forehead to stop a dribble of sweat from running into her eye. She takes a few panting breaths and catches sight of something in the window. It's Aunt Petunia. She looks shaken. Her skin is deathly pale, and her hair is messy and falling from its normally pristine, tight bun. When she sees Harry looking at her, she disappears from view.

Harry sighs. She'd never imagined that she would miss when Aunt Petunia had been angry and rude, but this distant, uncomfortable silence feels much worse.

Harry finishes all of the yardwork in the late afternoon, and her exhausted body collapses on the lawn. With her arms tucked behind her head like a pillow, she lets herself relax for the first time today. When she stares up at the sky, she is startled to find that the sun has disappeared. Very little light escapes from behind the clouds, leaving the sky looking hazy…. And grey.

And though she wants to look at anything else, wants to think about anything else, the sky draws her in. She lays there, paralyzed and numb.

Day 5

Harriet's eyes flutter open only to be greeted by complete darkness. At least it's not grey, she thinks bitterly, hoisting herself up from the dew-covered grass. Her limbs groan in protest, and she stretches, wincing when she hears the pops of her joints.

The few sips of water she's had since coming to the Dursleys have failed to keep her hydrated, and she struggles to moisten her mouth. Her tongue feels dry and dead like it's made of sand. Harriet shuffles toward the door to the house, but the handle won't budge. It's locked. The dry ache in her throat burns in response.

"The hose it is," she mutters to herself and enters the garage.

Piled in the corner under a mound of assorted cords and boxes is the green watering hose, and she yanks it out of the pile, not bothering to tidy up the stray items that topple over. When the spicket has been turned and the water shoots powerfully into the air, Harry cups her hands out and brings them to her mouth. She feels instant relief as her tongue springs back to life.

Realizing that it's been nearly a week since she's had a shower, she decides to rinse off. She starts with her hair, which has started to resemble a black rat's nest, and then moves on to the rest of her body. The water doesn't help much with the smell of grease and sweat, but it does help to wash away some of the dirt that's been accumulating on her skin. Finally deciding that she's probably as clean as she can get without soap, she turns on the hose so that the water flows steadily into the garden.

She waits patiently for the light to come on in the kitchen so that she can go back inside. By the time her aunt finally traipses downstairs, the sun has peeked its head above the horizon and Harry is no longer drenched and dripping.

Her aunt locks eyes with her through the window, shooting her a disapproving look, and then traipses over to the door, opening it a crack.

"Come in and make breakfast," she commands. Though Petunia looks more composed than yesterday, the paleness has not left her slightly-lined face.

Harry doesn't argue. She doesn't mind the work anymore. It will keep her busy, and besides, she will finally be able to sneak some food. She manages to eat an entire egg and a slice of toast without her aunt saying a word.

From there, she is sent to clean the bathrooms, then the bedrooms, and finally the living room. She is dusting in the sitting room when Dudley stomps in noisily with his friend, Piers, laughing obnoxiously behind him.

"And so, I told him, if you're gonna be such a twat about it I'm gonna knock your teeth in," Dudley says, grinning broadly.

"And what happened?" Piers asks.

"I beat his ass," Dudley guffaws. "Kid'll be lucky if the doctors can ever get the dents out of his face."

They plop down on the couch, still yapping about Dudley's latest victim, and the television clicks on. The boys barely glance over at Harry dusting the fireplace mantle. She continues working, completely immersed in her work.

"Hey! Bring us some sodas," Dudley suddenly screeches. His feet are propped up on the table, and he seems determined to keep them there.

Harry can hear her cousin's commands, but she chooses to ignore them. It isn't her job to wait on Dudley. She keeps her back turned to her cousin and continues her chores.

"Scarhead! Hey!" Dudley roars. When Harry doesn't respond, he sighs and climbs off the couch. "Bloody useless."

"What's wrong with her," Piers asks. He's studying Harry with a quizzical look as if he's never noticed her before.

"She's a freak. She's always been a freak," Dudley calls on his way to the kitchen.

Piers frowns. "She seems stranger than usual."

Dudley returns with two cokes in his beefy hands. "Yeah… Mum's saying she's crazy now," he laughs and sprawls out on the sofa again. He chugs down most of his soda. Then, as if thinking of something particularly funny, he looks toward Harry with a devilish grin. "Scarhead! Hey!" He chucks the empty can at his cousin and it smacks her square in the back.

Harry feels the sudden pressure on her skin, and she whirls around. Who's touching her! Why is someone touching her! She calms when she sees the can at her feet.

"You really slit your wrists?" Dudley asks.

Harry's eyes flicker down instinctively, and she presses her wound against her chest, but she can't bring herself to answer. Shame and humiliation bubble in her stomach.

"Wish you'd finished the job."

Harry knows she shouldn't be offended by his remark, after all, she had wished that she had the courage to end it too, but it still feels as though a block of lead has settled in her gut. She turns back to the fireplace. She needs the distraction.

"Oh c'mon, she's gotta be good for something," Piers says, raising an eyebrow at the girl's back.

"Ew," Dudley retorts. "Really? Don't you have any standards?"

Piers shrugs nonchalantly and grins. "Not really."

Just dust the mantle. Just ignore them, Harry thinks. She disregards the fact that the mantle is free of dust; she's already cleaned it three times. She runs her rag over the surface again.

Harry doesn't hear Piers get up from the couch or notice his footsteps drawing nearer. But then there's a strong arm clasped around her arm. Harry whirls around. Her fist automatically bolts forward. A crunching noise breaks the tense silence in the room, and Piers stumbles back, clutching his nose.

"WHAT THE FUCK!" Piers roars.

"MUM!" Dudley yells at the same time.

Petunia comes hurdling into the room, looking startled. "Wha-" she begins. Then her eyes widen, she steps back frantically, and her hand comes up to cover her gaping mouth.

Harriet stands frozen at the front of the room with her arms curled tightly around herself. She's shaking so violently that it could be mistaken for a seizure.

Piers is still crouching on the floor, trying to staunch the flow of blood from his crooked nose and staring up with confusion and anger. Harry meets his gaze, her green eyes blazing.

"DON'T EVER TOUCH ME!" She screeches.

The television lets out a fizzing noise, and the picture goes black. The lights in the room flicker, emitting a fountain of sparks. Thunder sounds throughout the house, causing Dudley and Petunia to cower in fear. They can't take their eyes off of the girl quaking in front of them.

Then, as suddenly as everything had begun, the television and the lights pop back to life, and the house is silent and still. The power Harry had released into the air suddenly slams back into her with the force of a truck. She sways on her feet, feeling lighter than air. With half-opened eyes, she lets out a quiet moan and then crumples to the floor. She lays there, unnaturally still.

"What the hell was that?" Piers whispers, but no one answers.

"Dudley!" Petunia says, tearing her eyes away from the unconscious girl. "Help me drag her outside."

Without saying a word, Dudley stands up shakily and grabs his cousin's thin arms. He winces when he sees the gash on her wrist still crusted with dried blood.

They drag Harry through the kitchen and out the door and place her next to a large shrub that shields her from view. The emotion on Petunia's face is indiscernible as she plucks a stray twig from her niece's hair.

She looks over at her son with somber eyes. "I think it would be best if we didn't mention this to your father."

Dudley nods.

Day 6

Harry wakes in the dark; she wishes that she hadn't.

When she lifts herself from the ground, her head pounds viciously, and she claws at her temples to keep her skull from exploding. She draws in several deep breaths and places her head between her knees. The pain grows duller as the moments pass, and eventually she is able to rise.

But now that she's on her feet, she has no idea which way to go. What's the point of getting up at all? She knows that the door to the Dursley house will be locked, and the people inside are likely furious at her for her freakish display. Not that she wants to be in their house anyway.

Harry feels restless. She could walk around the neighborhood, but what's the purpose? She has nowhere to run and no one to run to. She is alone.

And she wants to hope that this feeling will pass. And she wants to believe that things can get better. And she wants to think that somehow this whole fucking mess will just disappear. But she doesn't. She can't.

She'll never have a family. The Dursley's have made that perfectly clear. There's just something about her, some particular quality, that makes it impossible for them to love her. It's not something she's done like she'd always hoped. It's something that she is. And she can't change that.

Harry paces back and forth on the lawn, lost in her own thoughts.

Perhaps her mother and father had loved her once, but they are gone. They are never coming back. And she has friends and she has Sirius, but they will never understand. She can't tell them about what's happened. They'd never see her the same again. They wouldn't love her.

She can't even love herself. And every time she tries, she's reminded of what happened. She sees it all, just as vivid and gruesome as it had been in real life. She can't escape the noises and the images and the pain. Harry hates herself.

She finally sees what her aunt and uncle have always seen. She's disgusting. She's worthless. She's trash. All she does is fuck everything up for everyone else. She's nearly gotten her friends killed in dangerous situations numerous times. She got Cedric killed for real. She's a parasite, a leech sucking the life out of everyone she knows.

Harry trips over a hulking, brown root that has tunneled its way through the lawn's surface and topples into the trunk of a large oak tree. She remembers that she used to climb this tree when she was little. She would clamber up as high as she dared and stare out at the world, wondering if she'd ever escape from the Dursleys, if she'd ever find a place where she belonged. Now, she knew that she never would.

Harry sighs and runs a hand through her tangled hair. What the hell can she do?

But then she's looking at the tree again, and she has an idea. An idea so dark and so forbidden that she's never allowed herself to consider it before. This is different than the knife. With the knife, she had known deep down that she might survive, that someone might decide to save her. But with this, she knows there will be no going back. She smiles.

Thanks for reading! Please leave me a review and tell me what you think.