Disclaimer: Has anyone actually read a really interesting disclaimer? If so, I'd like to read it. They always sound so dry. Honestly, how can you really say "It's not mine, I didn't do it," sound interesting?

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ONLY SO MANY BATTLES

By Splitbeak

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Chapter Four: Last Minute Plans

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The jarring sensation of cold water pounding continuously over his head brought Harry back to reality with an unpleasant jolt. "What?" he tried to sputter, only to have his mouth overflow with the bitter water. Struggling, he backed up a whole six inches before his back bumped into the cool tile wall of the bathroom. It was enough to escape the water, leaving Harry shuddering weakly in shock against the wall.

The roaring of the water stopped and Harry opened his eyes to see a Vernon shaped blob (or a hippopotamus- it's hard to tell sometimes) no doubt glaring at him over the rim of the bathtub.

"You'd think you freaks could handle the heat a little better, passing out like a little girl," Vernon sneered. "Well, get up boy. We're leaving, and don't think for a second I trust you alone in this house with all our things."

"Where are you going?" Harry asked, trying to get his bearings. Uncle Vernon had thrown him in the tub with his clothes on and everything. They weighed heavily on his aching body, but at least the coolness brought a little relief.

"I'm taking your Aunt and Dudley to Majorca to get out of this rudding heat! What's the point of air conditioning if it doesn't work?" Vernon groused. "Get cleaned up. When you're done you can clean up the mess you left in the cupboard. Five minutes!" With that, he slammed the door shut, shouting for Petunia to get him a friggin' lemonade before he overheated!

Alone at last, Harry levered himself carefully out of the slippery tub, his throbbing arm trembling under his weight. He quit his t-shirt and squeezed the water out, the throbbing increasing as his muscles tensed. Seeing the red stain still on his forearm, Harry rubbed it gently with the shirt, knowing the Dursleys would pitch a fit if he dared to use one of their precious towels. Inspecting the gash running a good three inches down the side of his arm, Harry hoped it didn't get infected. Moving towards the sink, he winced at the stiffness of his jeans. No point wringing them out; they'd take days to dry. Almost missing the counter, Harry rested heavily before running the tap. Letting it run cold, he slipped his head under the faucet, eagerly lapping up his first drink in over two days. It was pure bliss.

Harry drank all that he could, luxuriating in having a clean mouth and the ability to swish the water around, then spit it back out again. Re-soaking his shirt, Harry's fingers brushed across a discolored sticky spot. Ugh, vomit. Scrubbing it out the best he could, hazarding to use a little of the hand soap Aunt Petunia kept in some gaudy violet container. While the soap helped it smell a little better, the water thinned the vomit, making it streak down the side in a disgusting stream. With a sigh of defeat, Harry carefully swabbed his neck and face with the other side of the shirt, readily trading the smell for the sweet relief of wiping off the sweat layering on his body. Harry drank again until his stomach was so heavy he thought he would explode.

He turned off the tap, punishing his arm with one more wringing of the t-shirt, disgusted by how well the white showed off the vomit (even with his eyesight!). Hermione would no doubt have something to say about wearing something so filthy, even if there wasn't much of a choice. His stomach rumbled and before he realized what was happening, Harry found himself perched over the toilet, retching and clutching the porcelain for dear life. All the sweet cool water he'd just drunk burned its way back up his throat, leaving it more raw than ever before. When he was done, Harry lay over the bowl gasping, trying desperately to breathe around the fire in his throat. His parched lips cracked, pulling painfully against his skin and mingling the taste of blood with his spew. Harry depressed the flusher and watched the disgusting liquid swirl away. Stumbling, Harry made his way to the sink, the room tilting dizzyingly around him. Harry cupped more water into his hands, not even noticing the fine tremors, and brought it up to his face to drink more slowly this time.

"Boy! You done yet?" Vernon shouted, pounding on the door before barging in. Harry jumped, spilling precious water on the counter. "What's taking so long?" he demanded, reaching over Harry to shut off the tap.

Not giving Harry the chance to respond, Vernon hauled him by his good arm into the kitchen. He forcefully shoved Harry into one of the hard wooden chairs (Hey!) and slammed a pen and a crumpled piece of paper on the table. "You will write to those freaky friends of yours," he instructed, dousing Harry in his spittle, "You will tell them you are no longer welcome here, and you will tell them to come pick you up this instant. And for Pete's sake, you will put your shirt on! Your Aunt doesn't need to come in here and see such things."

Harry put his sopping shirt on as quickly as he could, which wasn't very, blinking in pleasant surprise. Leave? Okay. He couldn't write fast enough… actually, he couldn't seem to write at all. His hand kept slipping around the pencil. His fingers felt too numb and thick to grasp the wood. The harder he concentrated, the more his head pounded. If he'd had the energy, he'd have run his hand across his scar until the skin rubbed off. Maybe with a few less layers it would be less hot!

"Can't even write like a normal person, eh?" Vernon sneered. "What's the use of that school of yours anyway?"

For all his jeering, Vernon made no move to actually help Harry write. Harry held one shaking arm in the other, and exerted all his will on controlling his hand. Harry eventually managed to scribble out a note that might have read, "Come get me." It was kind of hard to tell when he was all but blind without his glasses. Harry sighed, handing the letter to his uncle to approve. Vernon read it, but Harry couldn't see his reaction. It must have been alright, because Vernon was suddenly hauling him around the house again.

"Where's that ruddy owl?" Vernon mumbled as they barged into Harry's room. Hedwig! Harry couldn't believe he'd forgotten her. She must be so thirsty. No way any of the Dursleys would have taken care of her while he was out of it. And indeed, the poor bird was drooping. With an unexpected burst of energy, Harry dashed clumsily to her cage, fumbling to open the door. He reached in to pet her soft feathers, unsettled by her unnatural stillness. Hedwig slowly leaned her head into Harry's hand, butting his palm gently, but that was the only acknowledgement she gave.

"I need to get her some water," Harry croaked, coaxing the owl to step up onto his hand.

"Nonsense. Just put the letter on it and send it on its way," Vernon insisted, shoving the letter in Hedwig's face as if he expected her to just grab it and disappear. Who knew, maybe he did.

Harry looked at his uncle incredulously. "Are you mad? If she doesn't get any water she'll die in this heat. There's no way she can fly to the Burrow like this. My friends will never get the message. How…" Harry's voice gave out on him with a fiery flare mid-word.

Vernon fumed between the option of letting this connection to the magical world suffer as he wished all its associates to suffer, and getting rid of Harry, thus ending his own personal discomfort. The sound of the front door slamming into the wall, followed quickly by Dudley stumbling into the room. "Dad, when we gonna get outta this heat?" he panted, clearly lacking the energy to even bait Harry.

Vernon narrowed his eyes before his shoulders slumped in defeat. "Right now. Help your mother pack the car while the freak sends his owl." Dudley lumbered out of the room with a whine, clearly not relishing the idea of moving around any more than helping his mother do anything. "And you," Vernon snarled quietly at Harry, "Give that ruddy bird its water, then I want you out of this house. Do you hear me?"

"Yes Uncle Vernon," Harry answered just as quietly and with just as much venom.

He didn't have the voice to answer any louder if he'd wanted. Not waiting for his uncle to change his mind, Harry darted past the blob, clutching Hedwig tightly to his chest so she wouldn't fall. Once more in the bathroom with the tap running and water cupped in his hand, he tried to get Hedwig to drink. The poor bird was too tired to even perk up enough to drink. Trying to think what Hagrid would do with a sick animal (to think they'd never covered domestic pets in Care of Magical Creatures!), Harry placed Hedwig carefully on the counter, relieved when she could at least stand on her feet without falling over. Giving up on getting her to drink from his hand, he let the water fall back in the sink, and ran his wet hands along her beak, wetting it and hoping some would leak into her mouth. Hedwig just leaned her head heavily against his hand, letting him support the entire weight. Alarmed, Harry leaned over her further, causing his shirt to fall into the sink. Pulling back, the light bulb finally went off over Harry's head and he let the hem of his shirt fall back under the water. Once it was thoroughly soaked, he pulled it back out without wringing it. Bringing the wet cloth up to Hedwig's beak, he coaxed the material over he unresisting jaw. The water soaked into her mouth, and Hedwig swallowed involuntarily. Pleased, Harry removed the shirt and repeated the process. This time, Hedwig understood what was happening and opened her beak readily. Harry smiled in commiseration, all too vividly remembering that first drink after such thirst. Also remembering what happened right after said drink, Harry was careful not to let Hedwig drink too much.

Once Hedwig seemed more alert and began dancing around on the counter, Harry brought her up to his shoulder. Hedwig sidled right up against his neck, thanking him with little bird kisses. Harry gave her a peck of his own against her neck, relieved by the happy fluff of her feathers she gave in return.

"Feeling better?" he asked her. She happily cooed, assuring him that it would take more than a near brush with dehydration to slow her down. "Can you take this to Ron?" he asked, giving her the letter to take in her bill. Hedwig nipped affectionately once more, and flew off when Harry opened the window. He hoped Ron got there quickly.

"Is it done?" Vernon demanded as he left the bathroom. Harry nodded, wishing he'd thought to get a drink of water himself. Wondering if it wasn't too late, he started to go back before he was brought to a rough halt by his uncle's beefy fingers digging into the cut on his forearm. "Where d'ya think you're going? We had a deal. Get out." And without further ado, Vernon dragged him down the stairs, giving Harry no chance to react. Caught off guard by the initial pull, Harry over balanced on the first step, landing painfully on his knees. Assuming Harry was just being difficult, Vernon continued to pull him along, enjoying the thump Harry's knees created each time they hit a step.

Harry winced, trying to get his feet under him as his thin, ratty jeans tore, exposing his skin to the Dursleys' loyal wooden stairs that were all too happy to share its splinters with the freak. They passed Dudley standing in the front door, Aunt Petunia coming in behind him. Vernon stopped in front of the cupboard, but was cut off by his wife. "I've already taken care of it. Please, Vernon, let's just go," Petunia panted, over-heated herself.

With a dissatisfied grunt, Vernon tugged Harry away from the cupboard and across the tiled kitchen floor. Harry used the brief presence of the kitchen table for support and managed to get one foot under him before they reached the first cement step of the back patio. The other foot that was still dragging was scraped raw by the merciless cement. A thin trail of blood followed Harry as his uncle deposited him on the grass.

"C'mon Dad, let's go!" Dudley whined impatiently from inside the house.

Vernon towered over Harry, pointing threateningly. "You can't wait here for your freaky friends. But I warn you boy, if I find out that you've broken into our house with or without your perversion, it will be the last straw! Do you hear me?"

Oh, how Harry itched to take out his wand and curse the fat arse. His wand… that was still in his room under the floorboards. "My stuff…?"

But Uncle Vernon was already in the kitchen, no longer interested in his nephew past making sure he couldn't get back into the house. Harry heard the click of the lock turning and soon after the vrroomm of Vernon flooring the car out of the driveway. With a sigh, Harry sat up gingerly, hating his uncle for the deep aches that now plagued every muscle of his body. The glaring sun wasted no time erasing whatever relief his last bathroom visit had brought, creating a fresh sheen of sweat against his forehead and causing an immediate thirst to tickle the back of his throat. Harry glanced at his watch and had to stifle a groan. It wasn't even high noon yet.

Having been the one responsible for the household gardening for the last ten years or so, Harry knew there was no shade to be found in the backyard. Searching for any alternate source of relief, he saw the garden hose was still out near the gate. Standing, Harry nearly toppled over at his first step. He sat down again before he fell down and tried to massage his sore foot. Wincing, he abandoned the idea as touching it only made it hurt worse. His foot was so sore! Sitting helplessly in the grass, Harry cursed his bad luck. A few scrapes on the sole and side of his foot was hardly debilitating; he'd certainly had much worse. But at this point it was just one more injury added to a list of little hurts that were piling up to make one very exhausted wizard. If Death Eaters attacked he'd be a sitting duck. Pretty much literally. He had to get inside somehow and fetch his wand. In order to do so, he needed to get at least a little bit of energy back.

So he crawled carefully to the hose, ignoring the annoying pinpricks of the hot grass dragging along his ripped jeans and poking his bleeding leg. The metal knob that controlled the hose was hot to the touch and his hand burned as he turned it. The metal squeaked quietly as he turned the pressure up as high as it would go, and Harry eagerly held the green hose level with his mouth. A few drops of water dribbled onto his tongue, but no cool stream followed. Harry stared at the hose in disbelief before violently throwing the useless thing away from him and shouting his frustration. Those son of a—the Dursleys had turned the household water off on him!

Not even bothering to turn the hose back off, Harry vainly crawled a few feet away, if for no other reason than to separate himself further from the empty promise of salvation. Just once, just once!, why couldn't something go right for him? If Sirius were alive he'd never have left him to rot like this! Even Dumbledore had never let it get this bad.

Harry jerked himself away from that train of thought before memories of his former mentor could overwhelm him. An image of Snape pointing his wand at the exhausted old man flashed before his eyes, and Harry did his best to think of anything else. Please, Severus…. Bitterness welled up in Harry's throat as all the unfairnesses in life bounced around his skull. Well, he had a few hours to kill before the Weasleys came to get him, most likely, so why not spend his miserable afternoon fantasizing about his revenge? When he got his hands on Snape, he'd make sure the traitorous scum knew every last ounce of his pain.

Harry stretched out on his back, closing his eyes against the blinding light, and envisioned it was not he, but Snape, who was feeling the heat burning him up from the inside out, the water leaking from his body as he shriveled up in thirst and the righteous sunlight of all his victims searing out his eyes from beneath his lids. In the depths of his anguish, it was so easy for Harry to hate the world and those who made it even the slightest bit unpleasant.

The intensity of his rage died down quickly, and Harry felt a little better after mentally venting. Lethargy brought on by intense, unyielding aches settled into each of Harry's limbs, making his whole body sink heavily into the grass. His mind followed his body's example, and his dark thoughts were suspended as he drifted. If it weren't for the persistent aches, it would almost have been peaceful.

The shadow of a person standing over him spared his eyes from the blinding glare. Harry blinked the sunspots out of his vision, glad that Ron was finally here. He'd had enough of this heat. As his sight cleared, survival instinct flooded his system with adrenaline that had him shooting up from the ground like a rocket. Slapping his pockets, Harry felt nauseas to realized his wand was still in the house.

"Hello Harry," Voldemort smirked.