Book 1 of Harry Potter and the Blackened Trio:
To avoid any confusion for new readers, I will also add that the first three chapters are not written in chronological order. Harry's chapter happens in 1988, and Arcturus' chapter happens in 1981, the day after the defeat of Voldemort and the day Sirius is sent to Azkaban. Voldemort's chapter covers a few weeks, ranging from August 1979, with time skips until his defeat.
Chapter 1
He's A Wizard, Petunia
June 15th, 1988
The heavy patter of rain against the windowpanes in the kitchen woke Harry from his restless slumber. He blinked groggily and squinted at his nightstand's old, battered alarm clock. The numbers glowed a pale green, showing it was 4:30 in the morning. Thunder boomed outside, its echoes filling the small room.
Fear prickled Harry's skin as he sat up, his heart pounding in his chest. He had never been fond of thunderstorms, finding the crashes and flashes of lightning to be unsettling. Harry knew he wouldn't be able to fall back asleep, not with the storm raging outside and his mind racing.
Rubbing his tired eyes, Harry glanced around the cramped cupboard that served as his bedroom. The limited space was suffocating, the walls pressing in on him. His gaze settled on a tattered, well-loved stuffed bunny sitting on a small, makeshift shelf. It had been with him since his toddler years, providing comfort during the darkest times. Harry reached out and grasped the bunny tightly, its worn fur offering a familiar sense of security. It was a miracle the Dursleys hadn't found it, but their eyes never fell upon the small bunny, always gliding right off it as if it wasn't there.
As flashes of lightning illuminated the cupboard, Harry's eyes darted toward the small metal slits of his cramped space. The brilliant streaks of light sliced through the darkness, casting eerie shadows on the walls. Through the narrow openings, he glimpsed the turbulent storm outside, its fury contained within the confines of his hidden world.
As the storm continued, an idea formed in Harry's mind. The Dursleys would be fast asleep, their deep snores competing with the storm's fury. The thought of going to them for comfort was absurd. They would mock him, belittle him, and perhaps even harm him for disturbing their precious sleep.
He would need to do something else.
Taking a deep breath, Harry made a quick decision. If he couldn't rely on the Dursleys, he would find solace in productivity. Slowly and quietly, he slipped out under the threadbare blankets, shivering slightly but careful not to make a sound. His feet barely had room to move as they touched the cupboard's cold, creaking wooden floor.
Harry paused for a minute to make sure the Dursleys remained asleep before he used the silent magic that always seemed to rustle within his body, yearning for release. Tensing slightly, Harry directed his powers towards the latch on the cupboard door, thinking very hard about what he wanted.
Open the door, please.
The door swung open with a barely audible click, granting him his much-needed freedom. It was a secret he had discovered years ago that he possessed a special kind of magic that operated without a wand or incantation. He didn't often show anyone his powers, nor did he know it was special.
After all, he had practised.
It hadn't always been this easy for him to ask magic what he wanted, as in his younger years, he had begged and pleaded and nearly forced the magic to listen to him.
But it seemed Mother Magic had a soft spot for him, and it didn't take very long for the thrum of magic to hum beneath his skin.
Of course, any mention of magic had the Dursleys running for the door...
Well, not really, but they had taken away his food privileges for two weeks when he was younger, after he had excitedly shown them how he could balance a plate with no hands.
His uncle hadn't been around, and when he reached home, Petunia made up an excuse for giving her nephew a food ban. His uncle didn't make a fuss, even complimenting Petunia on her quick thinking.
It had taken Harry four days of starvation to figure out how to open the lock on his cupboard, and he could eat stealthily at night from then on.
With his bunny clutched tightly, Harry squeezed his small frame through the narrow opening of the cupboard door. The hallway outside stretched out before him, dimly lit and full of foreboding shadows. He hunched down, his shoulders brushing against the walls as he made his way through the darkened space.
Usually, he'd wish for light, but any light now might rouse the Dursleys, and it wasn't worth the risk.
Room by room, Harry ventured, his slight figure navigating the limited area with precision. His tiny hands wielded a frayed rag, and he meticulously wiped away the dirt and neglect that plagued every surface within his reach. He scrubbed corners, cleared cobwebs, and straightened forgotten objects.
It didn't matter, anyway. Harry was sure his aunt and uncle wouldn't notice the difference.
The thunder continued to rumble outside, its intensity amplified within the confines of the cupboard. But with each scrub and wipe, Harry felt a sense of control, a brief respite from the chaos of the storm and his own tumultuous thoughts. The bunny in his arms became his silent confidant, a witness to his inner strength.
As the sky gradually lightened and the storm began to wane, Harry surveyed his handiwork. The house, once overwhelmed by neglect and lack of tidiness, now held a glimmer of cleanliness and order. A faint smile graced his young face, a momentary victory amidst his confined existence.
With the early morning hours slipping away, Harry manoeuvred himself back into the cupboard, careful to close the door softly and ensuring it locked behind him. He settled down on the thin mattress, his body weary but his spirit unyielding. Holding his bunny close, he closed his eyes and allowed the newfound sense of accomplishment to lull him into a peaceful slumber.
In that quiet moment, Harry dreamt of a different life, one where the storm of his existence would be replaced by acceptance and love. A quiet resilience held power and hope within the boy's grasp as the morning light slowly crept into the cupboard.
The oppressive silence of the morning was shattered by the furious pounding on the cupboard door. Startling awake, Harry's heart raced as he recognised the voice that followed — the sharp, piercing tone of his aunt, Petunia.
"Get out here, you worthless boy! How dare you sleep in! My Diddikins is starving, and you're the reason he's crying!" Petunia's voice echoed through the house, her words reverberating off the walls. Vernon and Dudley stopped what they were doing and turned to stare at her. The quiet obscenities she grumbled perhaps did not reach her husband's or son's ears, but Harry heard it well and sighed.
This is what he deserved.
Harry found himself in the kitchen preparing breakfast after being awakened and escorted from his cupboard by Petunia. With practised precision, he flipped eggs and grilled bacon regardless of the commotion.
The tantalising aroma of breakfast filled the kitchen, creating a stark contrast to the tense atmosphere. Finally, Petunia's temper subsided momentarily, and she gestured toward the door.
"Boy, get yourself ready and take that wretched briefcase with you. Go to that miserable school of yours!" Petunia spat, her tone filled with annoyance. "No food for you!"
The young boy didn't bother asking why he didn't get breakfast, as that was as normal as the throb on his forehead that greeted him on occasion. He also didn't bother reminding her that her son went to the same school as he did. Harry emerged from the kitchen, carrying the aroma of food with him as he walked toward school.
It was his last day before the summer holidays, and there would be no learning, only fun and activities to say goodbye to their classmates.
At least Harry would try to have fun before two months' worth of torture, where he would need to clean the house daily from top to bottom for his enjoyment.
The path to school was a basic one. Aunt Petunia once showed him how to get to school and hoped he would get to the right place afterwards. Dudley, of course, was driven to school, as Uncle Vernon was concerned Dudley would hurt his feet if he had to walk.
Harry thought Dudley would look more like a pig if he didn't.
Distracted by his hunger, Harry turned left instead of right. The consequence was a treat for Harry as he noticed a newly opened bakery that had materialised overnight. Curiosity piqued, the Potter heir decided to step inside; after all, he had once read that smelling food could make you feel full. Knowing how hungry he was now after smelling the breakfast he had made and been deprived of, Harry knew it was bollocks. Still, the smell of freshly baked goods was too strong to deny, and even if all Harry could do was smell it, he would.
The little bell chimed as Harry pushed open the door, revealing an almost empty bakery. Inside, he noticed a tall man with shoulder-length black hair reading a paper. Indifferent to the posh cafe's patrons, Harry focused on the food and delectable treats, licking his lips in delight. The inside of his stomach felt like a hollow enclave, but he had no money to pay, and staying here was torturous. Harry was just about to leave when he heard simultaneous gasps. "It can't be Harry Potter!"
Harry stared.
Never going anywhere as per his aunt's instructions, Harry couldn't fathom how anyone knew his name.
"Sorry, but who are you?" He asked, wondering if he should run or stick around and find information about this strange happenstance.
Glancing towards their nametags, Harry could clearly read "Clemence Davis" and "George Davis."
The name Davis rang a bell. "Are you Tracey's parents?" the young boy asked finally after numerous moments of thought.
They nodded, exchanging another glance.
"Tracey's in my stars studies class. We have it once a month."
"Oh, yes, dear, that's how we heard of you." The woman said, jabbing the man in the ribs when he opened his mouth to contradict her.
"Right, well, Hello there. I couldn't help but notice that this bakery appeared overnight," Harry said, his voice tingling with curiosity.
"Overnight, dear?" the woman questioned, seeming confused.
"It wasn't here yesterday." Harry clarified.
Clemence and George glanced at one another, then smiled warmly at Harry. "Oh, Harry, you're a bit of a legend around here. We've heard so much about you," George replied instead of answering Harry.
"I'm a legend?" Was this some sort of joke?
Just as Harry was about to inquire further, the man reading the paper stood up and ambled towards Harry, his fists clenched slightly as if he wanted to grab something, possibly Harry.
Seeming hesitant, the man opened his mouth as if to speak, a pensive look on his face. However, the stares from Clemence and George seemed to unsettle him, and he swiftly changed his mind. Without uttering a word, the tall man turned and left the bakery.
Shaking off his stupor, Harry refocused on Clemence and George, intrigued by their connection to him. "So, what do you recommend from the menu?" he asked, his hunger awakening and making him forget everything else.
Clemence and George shared a knowing smile. "Harry, you're in for a treat. How about a freshly baked chocolate croissant and a frothy cappuccino? It's on the house for you," George offered.
"You reckon giving a kid a cappuccino is a good idea?" Clemence asked quietly.
"He's a Wizard; it'll be fine."
Harry's ears perked up. Wizard, magic, and various other words related to the topic were both Vernon and Petunia's least favourite words. He knew he had a lot of extra sizzle of something hidden beneath his skin, and many unexplainable things had happened before. But even unlocking his cupboard door from the inside had to happen with something.
They called me a Wizard. At least my powers make sense now.
In spite of being told not to take things from strangers, Harry refused to deny himself food.
"I'll take anything! Thank you, ma'am, sir!"
"He's so polite, with such a tragic background. What a good boy!" Clemence gushed, not quietly enough.
Harry's stomach growled in response, and he eagerly accepted their suggestion. As he sat down, savouring the warm, flaky pastry and the rich aroma of the coffee, he couldn't help but wonder about the mysteries that seemed to surround him. With each bite, the bakery became a refuge, where strange encounters collided with delicious indulgence, setting the stage for the next chapter of his journey, whatever that may be, but Harry couldn't care about that now.
Feeling slightly more content now that he had something warm in his stomach, Harry happily skipped off, finding the right way despite initially taking a wrong turn. It felt as if the streets had changed just for him, but surely that couldn't be, so Harry ignored the incredible things around him and walked happily the rest of the way to school.
As Harry stepped into the building, a sense of foreboding lingered in the air. His classmates' excited chatter and laughter echoed throughout the hallways, starkly contrasting his solitude. Dudley's relentless bullying had driven away any potential friends, leaving Harry feeling like an outsider in his own world. It was his last day of year two, yet he still had hopes that people would like him for him and not for the fear Dudley put in them.
But perhaps he did have a friend in this school; if Tracey had told her parents about him, could it be that she was his friend?
Curiosity tugged at his thoughts, particularly about Tracey after his encounter with her parents. Determined to find her, he ventured into the other class, hoping to catch a glimpse of her among the sea of unfamiliar faces. But the short interactions they had shared in the past made it difficult for Harry to identify her with certainty. As he searched, he couldn't help but notice the excited anticipation in the air, signalling the upcoming class party.
The teacher took the roll call as Harry hid behind a desk, so he finally spotted Tracey a few rows over.
The festivities added a layer of challenge to Harry's mission as he found it impossible to blend in, standing out like a solitary figure against the merriment. It wasn't long before the vigilant eyes of the teacher fell upon him, quickly realising his presence in the wrong class. Before he could explain himself fully, Harry caught Tracey's attention briefly, blurting out, "I'm Harry! I met your parents," leaving her perplexed.
"Come on, Potter." The teacher said with a sigh, hauling him by the scruff of the neck and dumping him in the correct classroom unceremoniously.
Sat rumpled in a corner, Harry was left with unanswered questions and a sense of longing. The classroom was familiar, yet hostile. Dudley, relishing in Harry's apparent misfortune, revelled in the belief that something terrible had befallen him. Nevertheless, Harry's relief came as a temporary reprieve from punishment on this last day of school. Or maybe his actual teacher just didn't notice him.
As the day wore on, the rejection and indifference Harry faced weighed heavily on his heart. The constant denial of friendship and inclusion fed the simmering magic within him, stirring a torrent of emotions. The schoolyard buzzed with activity as students engaged in games and laughter, but for Harry, it felt like an impenetrable barrier separating him from the rest.
He approached a group of children engrossed in a game of tag, their laughter floating in the air. "Can I play?" Harry asked, his voice hopeful.
A boy with tousled hair glanced at Harry dismissively. "Sorry, no room for you. We're already playing."
Undeterred, Harry moved to another group gathered around a makeshift soccer game. "Can I join?" he asked, eyes filled with anticipation.
The group exchanged glances before one of the players shrugged. "We've got even teams. Sorry, no spots left."
Harry's disappointment grew with each rejection. He watched as children skipped rope, shot hoops, and played hopscotch, longing to be a part of their joyful camaraderie. He approached another group, where a girl was preparing to spin a jump rope.
"Can I play?" Harry asked, his voice laced with desperation.
The girl gave him a sympathetic smile. "Sorry, we're just playing with our friends. Maybe another time."
The weight of exclusion settled upon Harry like a heavy cloud. His once hopeful eyes dulled with sadness, and his attempts to join the games met with disappointment at every turn. Each rejection chipped away at his fragile confidence.
He stood on the outskirts of the schoolyard, observing the laughter and companionship that eluded him. The sound of children's voices blended with the distant echoes of his own loneliness. He couldn't help but wonder why he was the one left out, why no one wanted to include him.
Was it really just Dudley's fault, or did he somehow play a part in why no one wanted him?
The urge to belong, to be a part of something, tugged at his heartstrings. "When is it my turn?" he whispered to himself, his voice barely audible over the din of the games. He felt invisible, overshadowed by the vibrant tapestry of childhood friendship.
With each rejection, the simmering magic within Harry intensified. It crackled beneath his skin, yearning to break free. But he fought to contain it, determined to remain composed despite his growing sadness.
The sun reached its zenith, casting long shadows across the playground.
"Everyone inside, it's lunchtime!" The teacher called, blowing her whistle. Hunger gnawed at Harry's empty stomach, intensifying the ache in his chest. His eyes fixated on the table where a feast of pizza and chips awaited the eager participants.
The pains of starvation bit at Harry's stomach again, the memory of the earlier breakfast fading into a distant ache. The tantalising aroma of the pizza and chips filled the room as more pizza boxes were delivered for everyone, teasing his senses while his desperate hunger intensified. It seemed relief was within reach, but Dudley, embodying his tormentor role, intervened to stop it.
A forceful shove sent Harry crashing to the floor, though he managed to rise to his feet. Feeling dizzy, he clutched at the bookshelf, desperate not to teeter over and suffer even more embarrassment. Taking a breath, he ignored the teacher snapping at Dudly to behave and finally stood straight. Undeterred, the young Potter approached the coveted food, attempting to wait his turn like everyone else. Enraged by Harry's persistence, Dudley shoved him even harder, causing him to collide with the same bookcase he had moments earlier, held onto for balance.
A shockwave of pain went through his body, and Harry felt the breath leave him. As he stumbled back, the precarious balance of the shelf was disrupted, causing it to topple over, trapping him beneath its weight. The room erupted into chaos, screams filling the air. It was when Harry felt his throat tear that he realised he, too, was shouting and immediately silenced himself. That never got him anywhere.
Fear, fury, and agony coursed through Harry's veins, and an intense surge of magic exploded within him, aimed at Dudley Dursley. It was not a conscious act of revenge, but the raw power of his untamed emotions unleashed upon the one who had badgered him relentlessly.
Amidst the chaos, a continuous symphony of screams and cries filled the air. Students and teachers alike were caught in the upheaval, their panic and confusion mingling with the crashing of books and debris as Harry's magic unleashed itself, slamming into everything around him. Time seemed to freeze as the room became a battleground of magic and emotions.
Within the darkness and chaos, Harry could feel his strength waning, the weight of the bookshelf taking its toll on his body. Blood trickled down his neck, but he couldn't wipe it away, as his arms were stuck beneath the heavy metal of the bookcase. With tremendous effort, Harry managed to pry open one eye, surveying the scene before him.
Dudley was hanging upside down from the ceiling, one leg hanging limply at his side, while the other seemed stuck and unable to move. For the first time in his life, Harry saw his enemy cry genuine tears. And Harry couldn't feel sorry. He deserves that and more.
Exhausted and overwhelmed, Harry accepted the consequences of his unleashed magic. The room fell into an eerie silence, broken only by the whimpering and gasps of those affected by the chaotic outburst. As the darkness claimed him, Harry heard the sound of a loud thud and blearily noticed that Dudley had crashed to the floor, unconscious, before he allowed himself to be consumed by its embrace, surrendering to the blackness and the uncertainty that awaited him.
As Harry's consciousness teetered on the precipice of unconsciousness, he found himself caught in a liminal space between reality and dreams. He gazed upon his own prone form, trapped beneath the weight of the fallen bookcase, a scene of chaos unfolding around him. An unexpected presence materialised within this ephemeral realm, capturing Harry's attention.
Sat comfortably against the fallen bookcase was a boy, though this boy was unlike any he had seen before. For one, he looked older, maybe by four years or more. For another, he shimmered. It took a while until the boy stopped flickering, and the two continued staring at each other, not speaking.
"Are you real?" Harry asked finally, finding it strangely awkward to sit on the bookcase his body was stuck under.
"I can't believe no one's picked this up yet, to help you?" The boy responded instead.
"No one cares about me," Harry shrugged, allowing the diversion.
"I care about you." The stranger said.
Raising his eyebrows, Harry took in the boy's features as if hoping that would help him decipher who it was.
His heart skipped a beat as he beheld the striking boy who stood before him. Time seemed to stand still as Harry and the boy locked eyes, their gazes intertwined in a silent understanding. The boy's features were like a masterpiece crafted by the hands of a master artist.
His eyes were pools of mesmerising depth, shimmering with curiosity and wisdom. They sparkled with ancient knowledge as if he had lived countless lives and experienced the profound depths of existence. Harry couldn't tear his gaze away, drawn to the captivating depths that seemed to hold the secrets of the universe.
The boy's sculpted face was adorned with a confident yet enigmatic smile, a smile that hinted at hidden stories and untold adventures. His high cheekbones accentuated his features, adding an air of elegance and mystery to his countenance. Every line, every curve seemed to be effortlessly carved to perfection, as if he were a living embodiment of ethereal beauty.
Harry's eyes traced the boy's lustrous ebony hair that cascaded in gentle waves, framing his face like a dark halo. It was as if the boy carried a piece of the night sky; the stars woven through his locks. Each strand shimmered with an ethereal glow, as if infused with the very essence of magic.
An aura of tranquillity surrounded the boy; a sense of calm radiated from his being. It was as if his presence alone could quell the storm within Harry's soul, offering solace and understanding amid the chaos.
Harry found himself lost in a whirlwind of emotions, captivated by this boy, who seemed to have emerged from the realm of dreams. He couldn't help but marvel at the sheer beauty and grace emanating from every pore, wondering if such perfection existed or if he was merely a figment of Harry's imagination.
As they continued to gaze into each other's eyes, Harry felt a profound connection, an unspoken bond that transcended time and space. It was as if the boy held the key to his innermost desires and fears, a key that could unlock the deepest recesses of his soul.
At the same time, his piercing gaze held a captivating intensity, exuding an air of detached intrigue. Harry couldn't help but feel a twinge of envy as he regarded the stranger's handsome countenance. "If I were as good-looking as you, I think I'd have more friends," Harry mused, unaware of the depths of their connection.
The stranger's lips curled into a faint smile, his presence imbued with an air of authority. "Names hold power, my friend," he responded cryptically, his voice a whisper carried on the ethereal breeze. "In another corner of the world, they would call me Douma."
Douma—such an unfamiliar name, resonating with a sense of mystery and possibility. Harry took a moment to process the stranger's words, his mind grappling with the significance of this newfound connection. As the world around him continued to spiral with confusion, Harry found solace in this enigmatic presence, his perception shifting to encompass the realm of the unseen.
Together, they observed the teachers rushing in from other classrooms, their voices urgently raised. The clamour of sirens grew louder as the wails of approaching ambulances pierced the chaotic air. Harry marvelled at the organised chaos, the seamless coordination that unfolded in response to his unintentional display of magic.
Amidst the flurry of activity, Harry listened intently to Douma's running commentary. "Muggles are an intriguing breed," Douma remarked, his voice laced with amusement and disdain. "Blind to the wonders that exist beyond their comprehension, they rely on the Obliviators to erase the truth from their feeble minds."
"What are Obliviators?" Harry asked, hearing the term for the first time and seeking an excuse to move closer to the other boy. Somehow unable to stay away.
Instead of answering, Douma turned to look at him, a thoughtful look on his face. "Do you know why you're here now?" he asked.
Frowning, Harry took in the scene before him as the paramedics rushed into the classroom and several men went to lift the bookcase off of Harry's prone body.
"Dudley pushed me."
Rolling his eyes, Douma nodded, "Right, but what did you do because he did that?"
"I exploded with magic," Harry responded quietly, shamed that he couldn't control himself.
"Nothing wrong with magic, Harry," Douma said, but Harry was too exhausted to ask how Douma had known his name.
"Muggles are afraid of it," Douma went on, "that's why we have to protect it by hiding ourselves and magic itself from these people. Because Muggles are foul and evil creatures."
Harry couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness, the seeds of disillusionment planted deep within his soul. The very people who should have nurtured and protected him seemed ignorant of his plight, their dismissive actions serving as a grim prelude to the challenges he would face.
Harry and Douma observed as paramedics rushed to the scene with urgent determination, their voices blending into a symphony of reassurance and commands. Harry watched in morbid fascination as they carefully assessed the situation, their trained eyes quickly evaluating the boy's injuries.
With a calm yet focused demeanour, one paramedic knelt beside the trapped child. "He's unconscious," the man told another paramedic behind him.
With synchronised precision, the paramedics worked as a team, carefully strategising their approach to safely extricate the boy from beneath the heavy bookcase. They discussed their plan, ensuring every movement was deliberate and calculated, prioritising the boy's well-being above all else.
"Can't believe they're also helping Dudley," Harry muttered to Douma, whose eyes found the boy in question and sneered.
"I'd say you're right, but it's their job to help everyone."
In a coordinated effort, they carefully lifted the bookcase, its weight gradually relinquishing its hold on the young boy. Harry's heart raced as he looked at himself. "I really got banged up a lot, didn't I?"
"I reckon you could have died." Douma agreed easily.
Swiftly, one paramedic placed a cervical collar around Harry's neck, stabilising it to prevent further injury. Another prepared a backboard, its sturdy surface ready to cradle the boy and provide the necessary support during transportation.
With gentle care, the paramedics meticulously manoeuvred the boy onto the backboard, immobilising his fragile body. Each movement was deliberate, avoiding any unnecessary jostling or potential harm. Despite the situation's urgency, their touch was tender and compassionate, ensuring the boy felt as safe as possible.
Once secured on the backboard, the paramedics swiftly lifted the young boy, their strength and expertise making it seem effortless. They navigated the maze of debris, their every step purposeful as they made their way toward the waiting ambulance.
"I guess we follow?" Harry asked uncertainly, glaring at Dudley's prone form also on a backboard, and grabbed Douma's leather jacket in a vice grip so as not to be separated.
"Calm, little one," Douma said, taking Harry's hand instead and leading him into the ambulance with another woman.
"Headmistress," Harry whispered, staring out as the doors closed and noticed a second set of sirens as the police arrived.
"See how late they are?" Harry said, gesticulating towards the men that ran towards the building.
"Told you, Muggles are stupid."
They travelled in silence for a while as the sirens wailed outside.
"Hello, is this Mrs Dursley?" the Headmistress said, shoving Harry so quickly out of his thoughts that he nearly keeled over.
"Oh no!"
Douma was staring at him, a raised eyebrow perfectly curled in a mix of admonition and curiosity.
"Care to elaborate?"
Harry's thoughts turned inward once more. In the hushed confines of their shared mindscape, he conveyed his fears to Douma. "I'm afraid of my aunt and uncle," he admitted, his voice laced with vulnerability. "They already hate me for being what I am, and now... I fear their wrath."
Douma listened intently, his presence a silent pillar of support. He understood the weight of Harry's apprehension, his own disdain for the callousness of the Dursleys growing with each passing moment. Their invisible connection deepened, forging a bond that would shape their intertwined destinies.
"You won't have to worry about that again," Douma promised, and with that promise, a spark of magic passed through Harry's scar, unseen by either of them nor did they notice the unconscious Harry beneath them open his mouth in a large O, before shutting again.
Upon reaching the hospital, the Dursleys were already there waiting. He and Dudley were given beds near each other until Vernon threw a fit, and reluctantly, the staff moved Harry further away.
"Do you see what they do to me?" Harry whispered to Douma, even though they were unlikely to be overheard, being in their own mindscape as it was.
Nearby, he could hear the school headmistress speaking with his aunt and uncle. They surrounded a different bed, which Harry figured Dudley sprawled in.
"I'm pretty sure it was magic," the Headmistress explained patiently, her eyes sharp and tone sharper.
"They forgot to obliviate her!" Harry whispered in a panic, pulling on Douma's arm.
"Certainly seems like it," Douma said, nodding.
"There's no such thing as magic." His uncle snarled. It was apparent Vernon wasn't happy; his fists were clenched and shaking.
"Of course, because Dudley knew how to levitate himself in the air on his own," the Headmistress retorted, annoyed by Vernon's lack of common sense, "anyway, your other son-"
"It's my nephew," Petunia interrupted sharply.
The Headmistress looked at her like she was stupid. "Does it matter? Are they not both important? They both got hurt."
"Eh, it's just a scratch Potter got," Vernon muttered, waving his arm casually.
"He got a concussion!" the Headmistress replied, scandalised. "And that's only the basis of what they know. It looks like he broke a few different bones, and the possibility of a traumatic brain injury is high!"
"Yeah, sure, it's terrible." Petunia sniffed.
"Regardless," the Headmistress growled. "Doubtlessly, it was Mr Potter who did the magic. His face was scrunched as Dudley twirled around the ceiling."
"Yes, thank you, Headmistress," Vernon said, finally losing it; his breathing increased, his face purpling dangerously.
Petunia, though seemed concerned for other reasons. "I still don't see how you would believe in something like magic," she said, taking the other woman's arm and escorting her out. "Regardless, thank you for your concern, and have a nice day." Petunia smiled at the Headmistress like a Cheshire cat. There was a familiar look on the Headmistress's face as she left the room that didn't bode well.
"She is going to cause so many problems!" Harry moaned, leaning against the wall, observing as the Dursleys wailed over Dudley's prone form.
Douma shrugged. "Worry about yourself first," he said, nudging Harry to look towards the Dursleys, who were now looking towards the tiny form of Harry alone and prone in his bed.
With a sigh, Harry sat beside his body and closed his eyes. "Guess I should try to wake up."
Douma nodded. "Go for it."
With a hesitant wave, Harry closed his eyes, ending the out-of-body experience with a strange whoosh that scared him, and then he knew no more.
July 1st, 1988
As Harry's eyes fluttered open, he found himself surrounded by the sterile white walls of the hospital room. Unable to see, Harry grappled around the table and was shocked when someone handed them to him. He wasn't used to someone being at his beck and call.
To his utter surprise, Douma was there and sat back down on the chair saved for visitors.
"Um." Harry managed to articulate, to the immense annoyance of Douma.
"Harry, you really need to speak better."
"Forget that!" Harry nearly yelled, then lowered his voice when several nurses stared at him as if he'd gone mad.
Biting his lips to prevent another outburst, Harry turned towards Douma, his glare intensified. "They can't see you, can they."
"Not even a small pretty strand of hair on my head," he answered, smirking.
"Nurse!" Harry called, his voice desperate.
"Oh, wonderful!" she said, dashing over to him, "You're finally awake."
She began checking her clipboard and messing around with some wires. "Nurse!" Harry said again, waving his arms and wincing when he still felt a sharp pain.
"You'll regret it, Harry," Douma warned him, folding his legs comfortably.
Harry ignored him, smiling somewhat hopefully at the nurse. "You see him, right?" Harry asked, pointing towards Douma.
The nurse winced. "Mr Potter, it seems you've hit your head a bit harder than we thought." She wrote something down on her clipboard, making Harry want to scream.
"No one is there," At this, she actually scowled, "You would think that family would care that their son was hurt so bad."
Harry stared after her long after the woman had left his line of sight.
"I told you," Douma said once a second nurse had checked his vitals and left. "No one can see me; now behave, please."
"How long have I been out?" Harry asked instead, leaning back against the pillows and noticing that Dudley was there, too, asleep.
"You've been unconscious for two weeks," Douma told him softly.
Harry's gaze wandered, fixating on the injury list at the foot of his bed. The extensive list bore witness to the severity of his condition. Broken bones, deep cuts, internal injuries, and Intracranial Hemorrhage painted a painful portrait of his recent ordeal.
"What was she talking about? I have no family." Harry muttered, making himself comfortable once more under the covers.
"The Dursleys haven't stopped by your bed even once, but they come three times a day to see Dudley."
"Makes sense."
"In two days is his release day, actually." Douma went on, moving the chair closer to Harry's bed.
Harry immediately perked up, turning around to see if anyone noticed that a chair moved, but no one did, and he hung his head.
With each passing day, Harry witnessed a steady stream of visitors and well-wishers surrounding Dudley's bed. But the solitude was palpable when it came to his hospital room. The absence of adult supervision became increasingly apparent as the Dursleys made no effort to visit or provide support.
The hospital staff, too, took notice of the stark contrast in Harry's situation. Nurses and doctors exchanged knowing glances as they murmured about the lack of family involvement.
As Harry's days of recovery stretched on, a pivotal moment arrived when Dudley, his cousin, was deemed well enough to leave the hospital. And just like Douma had said, it was two days later.
Tension filled the air of the hospital room. Sensing an opportunity, Vernon confronted him with a menacing glare, his anger and resentment palpable.
"This is all your fault," he snarled, inching towards Harry with glee and menace in one look that made the large, beefy man look terrifying.
Desperately, Harry looked around to see if any Doctors or Nurses were there to help him, but none were in sight.
"Do you have any idea how much your shenanigans cost me?" Vernon growled, spittle flying everywhere as his teeth and lips clashed together. Infuriated, he wrapped his arms around Harry's neck and squeezed.
For a split second, Harry met Douma's eyes before his fluttered shut as oxygen began to leave him.
Seeing the imminent danger, Douma swiftly intervened, attempting to pull Vernon away from Harry, but his hands went right through him as if he were a ghost. Frustrated, Douma, in a final act of determination, reached for his blade and aimed it at Vernon back in a futile attempt to protect Harry. To their surprise, the knife seemed to pass through Vernon, leaving no visible wound.
Thankfully, the commotion caught the attention of a passing doctor, who, witnessing Vernon hovering over Harry with his hands around the boy's neck, demanded that he step away from the patient, completely unaware of the otherworldly occurrences. As Vernon stepped back, Harry noticed specks of blood staining Vernon's shirt and increasing in size as the seconds passed.
"Vernon!" Petunia shrieked upon seeing him, "You're bleeding!"
Douma rubbed Harry's throat to get the air pipe working again, despite the Doctors already checking him. Harry watched in fascination as Vernon removed his shirt; a large black spot there that blood continued to pool out of, but no stab wound to have caused it.
"It's him..." Vernon whispered, glaring at Harry. Raising his voice, Vernon said, "I'm warning you now, boy, if you come back home, it will be the last thing you ever do."
"They manage to say these threats every time there is no one present to care," Douma noted, frowning.
"Welcome to my life," Harry responded, turning over on his side to dismiss as the Dursleys left with Dudley.
"How many weeks do I need to stay here?" Harry asked, trying not to whine as yet another week had passed.
"They said you had bleeding in your brain," Douma told him for the umpteenth time. "I guess they must watch you because you're so young."
"I'm almost eight!" Harry snarked back, folding his arms that had finally stopped hurting.
"Yes, exactly, young," Douma said, rolling his eyes.
That night, Douma held him as he slept, and Harry told himself it wasn't because he cried himself to sleep.
As the day of Harry's release from the hospital arrived, a sense of trepidation washed over him. He had spent weeks in this sterile environment, finding a certain solace in the absence of his aunt and uncle.
On the morning of July 15th, the hospital staff prepared Harry for his departure. The head nurse, her expression a blend of sympathy and frustration, informed him that the Dursleys had been contacted repeatedly, but there was no sign of them, nor were they answering any form of contact. Their absence spoke volumes, confirming what Harry had long suspected - he was alone, unwanted, and forgotten.
It was perhaps a good thing, though, he mused as he packed up the few things he had with him, primarily clothes and his rucksack.
"Don't worry about it," Harry tried, as they called the Dursleys yet again. "I'm nearly eight! I can handle it."
Rather than calm the staff down, however, it seemed to lead them into a bigger frenzy.
"Call Children's Welfare." Someone said, but Harry's mind began to blur, and a strange, angry look appeared on Douma's face.
"Run, Harry," he said, and Harry did, running so hard and fast that he didn't see where he was going or if Douma was following him.
It was perhaps the wrong thing to do, as without warning, he ran into something very solid.
Douma pulled him back immediately, but it did no good as the man before him couldn't see him anyway.
"You dare run into me, boy?" a voice said very softly. And Harry would recognise that voice from anywhere.
It was with an incredible amount of courage that Harry lifted his eyes to meet Uncle Vernon's. It was a chilling sight. His uncle wore a malevolent smile that sent shivers down Harry's spine. Instantly, a surge of fear gripped Harry, and he instinctively sought shelter behind Douma once more. But to his dismay, his attempts to hide were in vain, for Douma's ethereal form remained invisible to the eyes of those around him, despite his now corporeal physicality.
With a swift and forceful movement, Vernon lunged forward, grabbing Harry by the arm and forcefully throwing him into the backseat of the car. The engine roared to life as Vernon took his place behind the wheel, a cruel glint in his eyes as he drove them back to Privet Drive, where Harry's worst nightmares awaited.
Now that he had an audience, Harry felt it would be very bad to try speaking with Douma, someone his uncle definitely couldn't see. It was proof when he showed absolutely no fear in manhandling him.
"Just wait until we get home, boy," Vernon said gleefully. "You will get the beating of your life."
"it's almost as if you didn't just come home from the hospital," Douma said in dismay, crossing his arms. "Will he really beat you up?"
"Yeah," Harry said with a sigh.
"WHAT WAS THAT, BOY?" Vernon roared, and with a jerk, Harry reminded himself that Douma wasn't truly there, and it looked like Harry was speaking to the walls — or ghosts, if Vernon was being paranoid.
Harry dreaded going home, but someone must have heard his silent plea, as when they arrived home, the Headmistress had returned, and she looked significantly put together. An unusual thing to see when it was summertime. She smiled softly at Harry and ruffled his hair, an almost plaintive look on her face that Harry couldn't place.
"I can assure you there is no reason for you to be here, Headmistress," Vernon sneered, barreling past her and pushing the door open.
"In." He said to Harry, who immediately obliged, grateful for Douma's ever-silent, domineering presence.
Uncle Vernon sent him to the garden, and when Dudley came barreling to the door, probably to also terrorise Harry, he was immediately sent back to his room.
"Why is the Headmistress here, Vernon?" Petunia asked as she, too, came to the door.
"I have some things I'd like to say."
"Of course, come in," Petunia said, her fake smile brightly shining on her face.
The Headmistress came in and sat down on Vernon's favourite chair.
"Come on," Harry whispered to Douma, pulling him to his cupboard, so they could eavesdrop better.
"What the fuck is this?" Douma asked, his voice disgusted and pitiful at the same time.
Harry scowled. "Shut up and pay attention."
The two peered out, and as Vernon and Petunia were facing the Headmistress, neither saw Harry listening in.
It was the first time he hadn't been sent to his cupboard and did not get the beating Vernon had promised him, which gave Harry pause as to what was happening.
"I don't think I've ever gone to my cupboard willingly," Harry murmured softly.
"Your cupboard?" Douma asked, strangled.
"Mmm," Harry muttered noncommittally.
"—letting you know that the Police Commissioner is aware of the situation and will check up on your family a few times this summer."
Harry stared.
"She got the police involved separately from the incident at school," Douma said appreciatively. "She's a good Muggle. Never thought I'd say that."
"I'm watching you," the Headmistress said as she left, her eyes boring into his aunt and uncle, before leaving, slamming the door behind her.
"Oh, boogie pants!" Harry whispered, dragging Douma out of the cupboard and out to the kitchen, where a door led to the gardens. "We're supposed to be here!"
"You're supposed to be there," Douma growled, dusting himself off primly and glaring.
When Harry was called back in for dinner, it was another incident of 'weird' that he could add to his growing list.
Harry got a meal. A full meal and avoided Douma's look of suspicion at Harry's excitement.
"You don't usually get a meal, do you?" Douma asked later after Vernon had acted normally the entire night and then shooed him and Dudley off to bed. Though, unlike Dudley, he tucked himself in and strained his ears to hear the story his aunt cooed to Dudley.
"Shh, I'm trying to listen!" he snapped when Douma opened his mouth to say something.
Douma sighed. "I can just read you a story. Stop trying to bend at the knee for them."
After, the silence in the house was almost scary. No telly for Vernon, nor a funny soap opera for Petunia that she usually watched in her bedroom.
Harry wondered if someone was watching the house. There could be no other explanation. Was he finally safe?
"Come hold me and keep me safe," Harry said through a long yawn.
With that small blimp of hope and Douma's strong arms around him, Harry pulled his covers closer to his chin and fell into a troubled sleep.
It was much later that Harry's fuzzy thoughts sharpened again, hearing his common nickname within 4 Privet Drive.
"It was the freak! I'm telling you, Petunia." his uncle's voice was heightened in pitch, causing Harry to immediately back up against the walls of his cupboard like a terrified kitten. Douma, who had somehow fallen asleep too, opened his eyes and stared at Harry, but the boy was too far gone in his panic to notice.
"You can't know that for sure, Vernon," his aunt's quiet voice trailed through the closed kitchen doors and into the metal vents of his cupboard.
"Even the school Headmistress knows now." Vernon countered. "You know damn well what his parents were — what your sister was!"
A smack was heard, and then a gasp, but rather than a scuffle commencing, Harry listened to a bellow of "He's a WIZARD, Petunia!"
Douma snorted. "Took them long enough to notice."
"Shh," Harry hushed Douma, then jumped at the thud on the stairs. Dudley was listening in too.
The woman in question hissed angrily at Vernon before a crash was heard from the kitchen. The sound was so loud that even Dudley, sneaking up and down the stairs, ignored all pretences and ran to the kitchen. Possessing a shred of self-preservation, Harry stayed where he was, which was good because his aunt shrieked at Dudley to return to bed and, when he refused, slapped him across the face.
Dudley blubbered, putting a fat fist to his face where his mum had hit him.
"Pet!" Vernon said, his voice indignant despite the situation.
"You shut UP!" she roared at him, and Harry could see big fat droplets of tears falling down her cheeks in quick succession from his vantage point.
"Best listen to your mummy, Dudley," Vernon chided gently through Dudley's bawling. "We'll get you a nice new toy tomorrow, alright?"
Dudley nodded and immediately stopped crying, looking up towards his father, his finger shaking slightly as it pointed at his face. "You better keep your promise!" Dudley said, and at Vernon's nod, returned to bed, clearly enjoying the sound of receiving presents. Dudley always received gifts.
When the conversation started again, this time a lot quieter, Harry had to strain his ears to hear.
Gingerly, Harry crawled to the small bars on his cupboard door and leaned against them to listen for anything else. He had been called a freak before, so he was confident they were talking about him.
"I'm not going to keep one of THEM in my house, Petunia," Vernon whispered once they were sure that Dudley had returned to his room.
"But Dumbledore said–"
"I don't care what some crackpot of a fool said, Petunia. This is MY house, and I will not have it!"
Petunia argued back, but her voice quieted even more, proving too difficult to hear anything further.
Suddenly feeling tired, Harry leaned back against his pillow, feeling his eyes drift. This was a tomorrow problem.
The tomorrow problem ended up being a night problem, as Vernon, furious with Petunia talking back to him, decided Harry would be his punching back since Petunia wouldn't give him anything nice that night.
Vernon Dursley, a burly man with a face contorted with rage, towered over the young, frail figure of Harry Potter. The room was dimly lit, casting eerie shadows across the walls.
Vernon advanced towards Harry, the man's fists clenched tightly. With a sadistic glint in his eyes, he grabbed Harry by the collar, yanking him violently out of the cupboard and into the living room. Manically, Vernon threw a powerful punch, which connected harshly to the boy's stomach. Harry staggered backwards, gasping for breath and clutching his stomach in agony.
Vernon, fuelled by his anger and hatred, mercilessly continued his assault. Blow after blow rained onto Harry's defenceless body, leaving bruises and cuts in their wake. Each strike landed with a bone-crushing impact, reverberating through the room.
Harry desperately tried to shield himself, but it was futile. Vernon delivered a forceful kick to Harry's ribs, causing him to crumple to the ground, writhing in pain. Blood trickled from Harry's mouth, his face becoming a mask of suffering.
The assault intensified as Vernon's rage escalated. He repeatedly stomped on Harry's prone form, his heavy boots colliding with merciless brutality. Harry's cries for mercy went unheard, drowned out by the sound of violence and the despair of his struggle.
Finally, as Harry's consciousness faded, Vernon delivered one last devastating blow to his head. The sickening crack of bone meeting bone echoed through the room. Harry collapsed, unconscious and bleeding profusely from his head wound.
Satisfied with his cruel display of power, Vernon callously seized Harry's lifeless body and hurled him into the small, suffocating cupboard under the stairs. The door slammed shut, sealing Harry's fate until the morning.
July 16th, 1988
What felt like only moments later, Aunt Petunia was dragging him out of the cupboard by his legs. An anguished yelp left Harry's lips as the large gash on his head roared to life as he was moved. Every ache in his body screamed to be kept as it was, and hastily, Harry attempted to apply some of his magic to make the pain go away.
Unconsciously, he stood up straighter, ignoring the streaks of tears on his face, as he faced the woman head-on, trembling only the slightest bit. He supposed neither of them cared for the doctor's instructions to avoid anything touching his head too roughly. Vernon certainly hadn't cared last night.
"Shut up, boy. Make us some breakfast."
As Harry limped to the stove, the hair on his body stood on end. It was as if his intuition knew something he didn't.
"I don't know why you haven't left this place yet," Douma said, standing near the stove where Harry was cooking. Harry ignored him, sending him a disdainful glare.
After last night's argument, his relatives were too calm and poised, Vernon even humming happily to himself as he prepared for the day.
An uneasy sensation ran through Harry when the doorbell rang, telling him to run. But as if in a nightmare, he felt his legs tighten, unable to move even one centimetre.
"Douma!" Harry whimpered, his voice strangled as the fear overwhelmed him.
"Thank you very much!" Uncle's unusually calm voice drifted to him from the front door. Ah, Harry thought, feeling relieved, it was just a delivery.
"Don't worry," Douma told him, "I'm here."
"Where were you last night when I got the shit beaten out of me?"
"Language!" Douma admonished him, but he looked contrite.
"I'm sorry. Aside from that black mark I gave your uncle, it doesn't seem like I can do anything else."
"Try harder next time," Harry said, still shaking.
"I will."
As he returned to making breakfast, ignoring his intuition urging him to leave became increasingly difficult.
"Look, Dudders; Daddy bought a new microwave for us!" Petunia gushed, her voice an octave higher than strictly normal.
"Where's the breakfast, boy!" Vernon bellowed, sitting down at the table. "Dudley, I have arranged for you to visit Piers today, and the Polkiss' already agreed," he added once he held up his knife and fork, waiting for Harry to put the food on the table.
"I'm chuffed!" Dudley muttered distractedly, clearly more interested in the soft, warm buns Harry set down as he grabbed one before his father could.
Although Dudley's going to Piers was routine, Harry could see his aunt and uncle constantly exchanging glances over the top of their mugs of coffee.
Dudley ignored everyone, too busy watching the telly and stuffing his face. It seemed Harry wasn't the only one anxious, as Petunia shook her leg repeatedly, and his uncle tapped the table with his fingers as he read the morning paper.
Sometime later, the doorbell rang again, and Harry had to take deep breaths to calm his anxiety, but it was only Piers, and within moments, the house was unnaturally still. Shaking slightly, Harry quickly cleaned the table, then stood on a stool to reach the sink and wash the dishes. The young boy silently cursed that he was too short to reach the sink alone.
"Harry, you need to go," Douma urged him, the other boy looking around, seemingly afraid himself.
"I know..." Harry whimpered, his leg trembling on the stool, making it unsteady.
Harry could feel the hush behind him. The air was so thick with tension his hand quivered as he grabbed the next dish. Any second now, he thought, the hairs raising against his neck.
"Go!" Douma shouted, but it was too late.
"Freak!" Vernon muttered from right behind him.
Despite his constant vigilance, Harry gasped, dropping the pretty ceramic plate onto the floor, cowering as the loud crash echoed into the silent room.
"That," Vernon hissed, grabbing Harry's neck so tightly he choked, "was Pet's favourite plate."
He threw Harry on the floor and kicked him in his stomach, and the barely healed ache Harry had healed earlier burst into anguish all over again. It was as if he hadn't recovered a single thing, and with each kick, Harry felt the skin tear just that bit more. Just bear it, Harry thought miserably, clenching his eyes shut. It will be over soon…
"D-Douma!" Harry yelled, as the only thing he could think of, regardless that Vernon would think him mad. "D-do something!"
"I'm trying!" Douma yelled back, but Harry couldn't see him.
"You know," Vernon murmured again, grabbing a knife from his pocket and holding it against Harry's throat. "I always knew you were a freak, talking to ghosts, now are we?" He asked, but Harry didn't respond or move. With each hitch of breath, the knife teased his throat, and he could already feel droplets of blood forming as the sharpness nicked his soft skin.
Harry, unable to take it anymore, began to cry silent tears. Why did Douma never help him when he needed it?
Ignoring the sharp intake of breath coming from Petunia. Vernon bent closer to Harry. "I was just going to take you away, but I think…." He leaned over Harry, pressing his whole body against him, resting a hand over his neck again, and squeezing tightly enough to suffocate him. "I think I'm going to have some fun first."
"P-please!" Harry whimpered, struggling to escape from his uncle's clutches and failing. He could already see stars at the forefront of his mind, making him dizzy. But the big, beefy man ignored the kicking and scratching as if it weren't happening.
"Petunia, dear, get out," Vernon said as he pulled Harry's trousers and pants down.
"Vernon, are you ins-"
Vernon turned coldly to face his wife. "Did it sound like I was asking?"
"N-no, but…" Petunia stammered, wincing at the look Vernon gave her.
"Then," Vernon said very slowly, "I suggest you do what I say unless you want to join your freak nephew on the floor."
"No!" Harry and Douma both said at the same time as Vernon pulled his own pants down.
Harry's struggles intensified, but it was no use. Harry felt the intrusion like a knife cutting him apart, and he screamed, his scream mingling with Douma, who was desperately stabbing Vernon everywhere he could reach with the same strange knife he had used at the hospital. But it was no use.
After, when Harry lay on the floor, his body like a rag doll and unable to move, Vernon smiled down at him, twisting his knife around his fingers.
"Everyone loves your scar, Potter. So you know what? I'm going to destroy it."
"NO!" Douma bellowed, "THAT'S SACRED, YOU SACK OF STINKY BALLS!"
But like everything else, no one heard Douma except Harry.
The next few minutes of Harry's life were only slightly better than the few minutes of agony he had just been through, in which his uncle penetrated him.
The feel of pain in his forehead climaxed into such unbearable agony; his yell was soundless. Bleary-eyed and half unconscious, Harry could feel himself being lifted before he was forced into something incredibly minuscule. Vernon hadn't even bothered to put his pants and trousers back on, and the box he was in was so small Douma couldn't join him.
Fighting was useless, as he seemed to have lost the ability to use his arms and legs. The light disappeared, along with his ability to breathe.
"Harry!" Douma yelled helplessly, as whatever Vernon was doing made the voice drift further away. "I'm coming to you; don't be scared. He's bleeding! He will die soon, I promise."
Was Vernon bleeding? Was it the same thing that had happened in the hospital? Or was it something new that could actually cause Vernon's death? He hoped it was the latter.
Pulling in a gulp of air, Harry attempted to kick at whatever was restraining him but couldn't.
It was as if someone had tied him with a rope, and the feeling of blood and liquid pouring from all parts of him made him feel dirty and disgusting. Before long, the box would surely drip; he could at least hope that someone found him before he, too, would meet Death.
"Petunia!" Vernon announced loudly, as the sparse light within his box changed slightly, "I'm going to return the microwave."
Of course, Petunia didn't answer. A small part of him wondered if Petunia would wait around for Vernon to return or run herself.
And then, suddenly, Harry felt himself moving within his small jail. Vernon must have taken him outside. Was anyone around? Where was Douma?
"No!" Harry tried shouting, but it came out as a whisper. Where was his magic now? Why couldn't he just burst himself free? But the thought of doing even the tiniest bit of magic made him shudder. He had to use his magic now to survive. The feeling of fading was crowding his senses too much, and it scared him. He was dying.
"Please!" Harry tried again to shout, but it was in vain, as Vernon started singing loudly, likely to cover Harry's pathetic attempts at being heard. Harry might have laughed if the situation weren't so dire; he had never heard his uncle singing before, but it seemed this was his way to divert attention to his actions onto something a lot more comical.
"What do you have there?" Someone asked, approaching Vernon.
Not wanting to die in a minuscule box, Harry struggled as if his life depended on it. The shaking box was clearly making someone suspicious and hearing his uncle grunt. "Nothing, nothing, just lost my balance," gave Harry hope he could be rescued. However, the stranger moved on, and a new whisper passed through the box.
"If you move again, boy, I will kill you and finish the job."
The threat was so quiet he wasn't even sure he heard correctly.
Where the hell was Douma? But Harry couldn't speak to call the boy that had given him just the smallest reason to live. But maybe, the entire time, he had been an imaginary friend and was now deserting him like everyone else.
If Harry could communicate, he would have snarked back that Vernon had already threatened to kill him some weeks ago. Considering his situation, Harry figured it was now his time to die. "Okay, Death." he whispered, "come get me."
The neighbour must have been watching because Vernon set the box down gently rather than throwing it, which would make sense if he wanted to return something in one piece. "What are you going to do, Vernon?" Harry heard his aunt say in a shaky voice. Maybe she wouldn't leave after all.
"Don't worry about it, Pet. Why don't you go and cook something nice? I'll have a nice appetite once I'm done."
Harry heard a sigh but no other words from his aunt, and for the second time that day, he felt betrayed. He listened to the boot close and the last bit of air and light that Harry had disappeared.
As Vernon sped away from 4 Privet Drive, the box Harry was in tumbled back and forth within the boot with Vernon's crazy driving, but his uncle gave no sign of caring.
What felt like hours later, the box moved again, but this time his uncle threw it down without a word or care for his safety. His head hit the ground, and he felt the split on his head reopen a third time. Blood began slipping down his face, which forced Harry to shut his eyes, as he couldn't move his arms to wipe them clear again.
The familiar sound of his uncle's car sped away, and with a gurgle of a cry, Harry felt the fight leave him. They left him; he was sure of it.
The last thing to cross his mind was the strangled thought of the blood sifting out through the cracks in the box and who would be the unfortunate person to find a freak like him.
"Come get me, Death," Harry said again as his eyes closed.
"Yes," he heard a voice answer. "I'm here."
And then the blissful fear of darkness took him like a friend holding him close.