Chapter 3

Letters from the Sky

A/N: Thanks for all the follows and favorites. It's good to see this already getting some heat. Again, this story will be updated quickly if everything goes according to schedule. I'll be trying to keep up on updates throughout the entirety of the story so there shouldn't be any super long waits. I'm working on an original story at the same time as this, so that will help keep me motivated to push this forward. Also, big thanks to my new beta reader Maudlynn for picking up on this story so quickly!

Stromsten: I'm not sure if there will or will not be anything from Hermione's point of view. It seems likely that that could develop in later chapters, but I haven't planned for it as yet.

Jarno: Thank you for the review. You have to remember two things. One, Harry is still a wandless child, meaning he can't control accurately what he's doing. Two, he is still a child. Meaning he hasn't yet come to terms with himself. This isn't exactly a dark Harry story, more of a realistic Harry.

Any mistakes are mine, anything Harry Potter is not.

Harry awoke in his cupboard, head throbbing. He began to sit up in the pitch black room until his head started spinning, sending him back to the pillow beneath him. Slowly the events leading to his unconsciousness returned to him. He reached to his face and felt for where he had been struck by the iron bar, feeling a sharp pain in his abdomen as he did so. His hand brushed over the left side of his face before traversing to the right side and feeling a large, swollen stripe stretching from the right side of his forehead to just below his temple.

Suddenly a cough wracked Harry's body and he coughed up something rough and solid which he was barely able to roll over and spit onto the floor next to him. Pressing a finger into his mouth, Harry found no cuts that would've caused him to bleed into his throat. Harry then felt toward his nose and his hand encountered dried blood below and in both nostrils, as well as a long cut from the bridge of his nose halfway to his nostril.

Harry breathed deeply, feeling the same sharp pain from the ribs his uncle had kicked. At least I'm not dead. He thought to himself drearily. For a moment he had thought that Vernon really would kill him. His hands moved again to his head wound and he felt it out. The entire area that had been struck was incredibly sensitive. He attempted to push himself off of his bed again, ending up in a half sitting position leaning against the wall. His head swam and pulsed with his heartbeat. Each note of his heart's music was an agony to him. Each moment of this position pressed him into a deeper pain. He reached his hand up to the strand of wire that activated his light.

He tugged. Nothing happened.

It was at this point that Harry began to wonder how long he had been in his cupboard, and how much longer he would be left there. He contemplated shouting, but when he roused his lips and tongue to form a word, his head wordlessly protested the unwanted effort, quickly forestalling any immediate attempt at speaking. Harry realized then that there was nothing for him to do but wait for the Dursley's to release him. He laid his head back to his flat pillow, closed his eyes, and fell into a fitful sleep.

Harry awoke again in the darkness, but something was different. He could feel a… presence. There was no other was to describe it. There was no sound. No light. No smell but that of mothballs and blood, but he could feel it. It was different. Almost the same feeling as when someone is staring at you. He reached out and around the room, but felt nothing and no one. He felt incredibly thirsty, but had nothing to drink. He moved his mouth in a second attempt to form words. "Uncle Vernon…" He said feebly. No one would be able to hear that. He thought, disappointed in himself. "Uncle Vernon." He tried again, a bit louder.

He repeated the words until they were almost a normal volume and jerked back when a loud thud came from the door in front of him. "You're lucky you didn't get worse, boy." Vernon said from outside the door. "You'll finish out your two weeks in there and count yourself lucky."

"Water." Was all Harry managed to get out.

Vernon laughed out loud. "There's a bottle under your bed. That's all you'll have until you get out of there." He said before stomping away.

Harry reached under the broken cot to find a gallon bottle three quarters full of water. Taking a long, desperate drink, Harry collapsed back to his bed. He still felt as if someone was watching him. The prickling sensation at the back of his neck refused to go away. He laid his head to pillow and began to drop back off to sleep.

All he thought about was somehow escaping the Dursleys. He raised his hand to his head and felt the angry welt of the iron bar. His odds of survival were low if another confrontation such as this one occurred. Vernon had been going farther and farther with his punishments, and Harry doubted he could survive anything worse than what he had just gotten.

When Harry awoke again, there was light pouring in from the open cupboard doorway. "Get up and make breakfast, boy." Petunia said primly before walking out to the living room, leaving Harry no time to respond. Harry slowly raised himself from the mattress and was surprised that his head throbbed so little. He stumbled into the kitchen and began to prepare pots and pans for cooking.

As he dropped bacon into a pan to cook, he was struck with how hungry he was. He remembered his uncle's words: "You'll finish out your two weeks…" Had he really been in there for two weeks? How could his body handle such a thing? He looked out toward where Petunia sat on the sofa, saw she was distracted, and grabbed a banana off the counter; destroying the peel in his fervor to eat immediately. Just as he shoved a piece of it into his mouth, he heard Petunia's voice behind him.

"And just what do you think you're doing?" She asked softly, her voice dripping with a falsely casual tone. Harry turned to her and held up the half of the banana that wasn't in his mouth as if to say "What does it look like?"

His aunt just looked at him for a moment and something seemed to change in her eyes as she stared down at the boy. Her gaze flicked from his eyes to his forehead and back down. "You may get the mail before you finish that." She said stiffly. Harry was astonished. No reprimand? No punishment? Did she mean finish the banana, or cooking breakfast? He swallowed quickly and walked to the front door, stuffing the rest of the banana into his mouth as he retrieved the newspaper from the porch where it sat. He closed the door and picked up the pile of mail in front of him before carrying it, with the newspaper, to the table where he set it down.

Harry looked over the mail quickly, not separating any of it. Uncle Vernon had always said that there was a simple pleasure in sorting one's own mail, and as such had said that he would be the only one to separate it. Harry made only a preliminary search with his eyes, but paused when he saw his own name on the front of a letter. He grabbed it from the stack and looked it over. It read:

Harry Potter

The Cupboard Under the Stairs

Number Four Privet Drive

Little Whinging

Surrey

Harry was shocked. No one had ever so much as called the house to speak to him, let alone sent a letter. He looked down at the letter and began to tear it open; hoping to find out what was inside before Vernon did. As he opened it, Harry felt the same sense of being watched he had initially felt while inside his cupboard. He pulled the letter from its envelope and had time to see some sort of logo on the letterhead before it was snatched from his hand by Dudley.

"Harry's opening the mail!" He called out happily.

Vernon entered the room and looked at the letter. He grinned maliciously. "You know better than to open my mail, boy." He said darkly. "You may return to your cup—"

"It's my mail!" Harry interjected before Vernon could finish his sentence. "It's got my name on it."

Vernon looked at it darkly before saying, "Well I guess we'll just have to dispose of it then." Before stuffing it into his back pocket and exiting the room. Harry wanted to shout. He wanted to try and steal it. But he knew it was a horrible idea.

"Wash yourself, boy!" Vernon called over his shoulder as he exited the room. "You look like you belong on the street."

Harry remembered then that he was still covered in blood and hadn't examined himself. "Would you like me to finish breakfast first?" He asked placatingly, hoping that if he pleased Vernon he could get his letter back. Harry's uncle looked at him sharply. "You are much too dirty to be anywhere near any food. In fact, if you don't wash yourself promptly, I believe I'll have to throw you back into your closet."

Harry ran out of the kitchen and up the stairs to the second floor bathroom. Throwing the door shut behind him. Harry turned on the shower before looking into the mirror. Dried blood was caked below and around his nose. The entire area where he had been hit with the iron bar was covered with it. Harry removed his clothes and inspected his chest. Somehow, there was no bruising. He had expected, from the pain he felt, that he would be bruised across his left side. But there was nothing.

Suddenly, Vernon pounding on the door woke Harry from his revery. "You best not be wasting our water in there!"

Harry heard this and immediately jumped under the running water. The heat of the water running down his skin felt indescribably good. He stared at the ground and saw the dried blood running off his body and down the drain. Harry then began to scrub it off; physically distancing himself from the remnants of his beating. I have to get out. Harry thought to himself. I have to get the hell out of here before Vernon decides to kill me. I can't try to fight him again. He's too much, he'll kill me. I have to get out.

After he had finished washing his body, Harry left the shower. He looked into the mirror and investigated his face. His nose didn't seem particularly crooked, and the welt from the iron poker was significantly less severe than he had original expected. He probed it with his fingers. Although the wound was still sensitive, it was nowhere near the painful touch-and-jump operation it had been in his cupboard. Harry wondered at that.

He toweled off and left the bathroom, returning to the kitchen where breakfast was in full swing. On entering the kitchen, Harry surveyed the room. In the center of the white-paneled, pristine room was a cream-colored dinner table around which Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley were arranged. The wall across from Harry was dominated by cupboards, drawers, and the kitchen sink, until it reached the far right corner where the refrigerator sat. To the right of the refrigerator was another set of shelving that stretched to the closest right corner, where the stove finished out the picture. In the far right corner, the wall remained unadorned until it reached a doorway leading to the entranceway.

As Harry entered the kitchen, he heard Vernon say, "We're just so pleased with you that you've been accepted to Smeltings! Why you know that was the school I attended, and look how I turned out."

Dudley brandished his new Smelting stick, a piece of the school's tradition for random acts of violence, and smiled at Harry as he sat down to begin eating breakfast. "Harry, did you apply to Smeltings? Or did you figure it would just be a waste of time? I mean you had to know that Smeltings is only for true gentlemen."

"I applied nowhere. I figured it would be easier to exist in a school that didn't have pompous asses walking the hallways beating people between classes." Harry responded between bites of scrambled eggs. Dudley nearly dropped his fork in surprise at Harry's response. The two adults looked at Harry, angered. He returned their looks and said, "Dudley needs some mental sparring. Good for his moral fiber. Where's my letter Uncle Vernon?"

At this Uncle Vernon became quiet. "It has been disposed of. I'm sure there are still some ashes in the fireplace that belong to it, you may try to piece them together if you'd like."

He said all this with a small smile, clearly believing that he was ever so clever. Harry nodded and turned back to his food without a word. He desperately wanted to know what the letter contained. He had never received any contact from outside Number Four, and he longed to understand who had reached out to him. The rest of the day Harry wondered what the letter had contained. A thousand questions entered his head. Who would know he lived under the cupboard? Who would want to send him a letter? Why wouldn't Vernon let him read it?

The next day, Harry exited his cupboard and began to prepare breakfast in the kitchen. He had slept fitfully, tossing and turning as his brain wandered over the question of the letter. He still dwelt on it.

He was in the middle of preparing a batch of peppered scrambled eggs when his uncle stomped into the room.

"Dudley, go get the mail." Vernon said. "I want my newspaper."

"Make Harry get it, Da!" Dudley cried in protest, holding up his Smelting stick as he shouted.

"Harry, get the mail." Vernon said without intonation.

Harry departed to retrieve the mail. As he picked up the newspaper and the letters he saw a familiar-looking envelope with his name on it. His thoughts raced. He had to hide it, had to find some place to keep it. He shoved the letter beneath his waistband, folded it, and covered it up with his shirt before attempting to walk back into the kitchen normally. As he handed Vernon the pile of papers, Vernon shot him a look. "No letters for you today, are there?"

Harry shook his head from side to side. "I didn't look through the mail. But I didn't see one in the pile."

Vernon looked back to the pile of letters and began to sort through them. When he reached the last letter in the stack, a satisfied smile broke out on his face. "Well then it appears whoever sent it has given up." He said in a satisfied manner, his eyes meandering to meet Petunia's face.

Harry's heart was beating rapidly in his chest for the rest of the seemingly-calm breakfast. Dudley devoured the food before him with his snout leaned over the plate. Vernon read his paper and drank his morning cup of tea. Petunia read through a magazine dissecting the lives of whatever famous people it was currently popular to be interested in. Harry sat, trying impossibly hard to remain normal. As soon as the Dursleys left the table, Harry darted to hide his letter underneath his cot mattress in his cupboard before returning to the kitchen to do his dishes.

He busied himself about for the rest of the day, moving from one activity to the next between meals. Harry washed the dishes. He helped prepare the food. He vacuumed the living room. He tidied the bathrooms. Finally, after the morning had been spent and the afternoon was well on its way to becoming evening, Harry was able to return to his small cupboard and look at the letter. It read:

Dear Mr. Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on 01 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress

As Harry read over the letter, he became short of breath. Witchcraft and Wizardry? This was unbelievable. He tore through the list of required books and equipment: The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk, Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger, Cauldron (Pewter, Standard Size 2), Wand, etc.

If this had been a prank it was incredibly well set-up. Harry looked over the various sheaves of paper in front of him. He wanted to believe so desperately that there was something more to him. Is this how he had done all of the unexplainable things that he'd done? He felt lightheaded, and then a sudden realization struck him. It didn't matter. His aunt and uncle would never pay for him to attend this school. They wouldn't let him leave. He was stuck here. If he was smart, he would throw away the letter now and pretend he had never gotten it.

He made a move to do just that, but couldn't bring himself to crumble up the paper. Harry held a choice in his hands. Somehow he felt that if he kept the letter, the mere ownership of such a thing would change him. Make him better. Stronger. Safer. Harry neatly folded the paper before inserting it back into its envelope and sliding it under his mattress.

The next morning, Vernon gathered the mail up. No new letter arrived. There was no uproar of fantastic argument over it being burned. Vernon did not shout or scream about magic. But to Harry, the day was full of tension. He still felt as if he was being watched. He felt it in his bones. He was surrounded by the pressure of what he had read. He tried to emulate his inward change outwardly with small rebellions: small quips at Dudley that he knew he would be too dull to understand, changing things from how he had been supposed to carry them out when asked, conveniently 'forgetting' to accomplish tasks he knew belonged to him. He felt changed, he struck out for power, but found only this minutiae.

Each day he felt as if there was something in him that if he didn't let it out, he wouldn't be able to survive, but with no outlet, he was doomed from the start. Vernon returned to his normal, shouting self; Harry did his best to avoid being beaten; Petunia focused on her television and magazines; and Dudley focused on beating Harry with his Smeltings stick whenever possible.

Harry had always ran when Dudley focused his attentions on beating him, but something about his newfound boldness caused Harry to attempt to strike back. On one occasion when Dudley attempted to strike Harry in the leg with the stick, Harry turned and slammed a hand into his stomach. It was a rough slap, with little power, but it stopped Dudley in his tracks. He stared at Harry as if he couldn't believe what he'd done.

"Dad!" Dudley shouted out. "Harry hit me!"

Vernon slowly trundled into the room. "Well, what of it boy?" he said quickly to Harry.

"He tried to hit me with his cane, sir. I was only defending myself."

Vernon looked at his son. "If a fool boy like that can hurt you, you won't last a minute at Smeltings." He said disdainfully.

Dudley looked from his father to Harry and back, confusion written on his face before swinging the stick into Harry's gut and doubling him over. "He didn't hurt me, he just caught me by surprise." Dudley said.

Vernon nodded. "That's the spirit, son." He said enthusiastically.

After this exchange, Dudley and his father left the room. As they walked, they chattered on about how Dudley would have to act at Smeltings, so as to carry on the family legacy. Harry slouched back to his cupboard. Pulling the envelope from under his mattress, he reread it slowly. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He thought solemnly. I need to get there. I need to find a way there. As Harry was reading through the section of the letter defining pets that may be brought, the cupboard door was thrown open. Dudley stood outside with his Smeltings stick and yelled, "Da just told me you'll be going to a public school next year! Only idiots and wankers go to public school!" before realizing what Harry held. "Is that the letter?" Dudley said questioningly.

"Dudley, please don't—" Harry began before Dudley bellowed "Dad! Harry has the letter you took away from him!"

The sound of a herd of elephants falling down the stairs, crashing through a wall, and falling through several floors of concrete resonated through the house before Vernon appeared, puffing. He looked down at the letter and snatched it from Harry's hand. "You. Will. Not. Be. Going. I'll have no magic nonsense in this house!" he said before cuffing Harry hard in the face and slamming the door shut.

Harry heard the sound of the deadbolt clicking into place and Dudley's questioning voice. "What magic, father? And where can't he go?"

"Do not ask any more questions!" Vernon shouted furiously. "Forget you heard anything." And there was the sound of a very hefty man stomping away, followed by his similarly heavy child.

Harry sat in his cupboard and wept. He had thought if he kept the letter a secret he might have some small chance at leaving. At escaping. But there was none now. It was July the 25th. He had no idea when he would be let out of his cupboard, but there was certainly no chance he would be let out in time to find a way to respond to the letter. Harry slumped his head against the door and cried out, knowing that no one was listening.

A/N: So there's chapter 3! Thank you so much for reading! Let me know what you guys think. I'm planning on uploading another chapter quite soon! If you enjoyed, please review! If you hated, please review anyway : ). Let me know where you're hoping this goes and what you're hoping happens. Again, big thanks to my new beta, Maudlynn. See you soon!

Where were you when I was playing with fire?