hello! welcome to a new fic i've decided to post on a whim. it's gonna be longfic, AU from OOTP and basically have bamf!smart!harry who decides to take charge of his life. sirius will also play a major role in this, but not for a few chapters yet.

this is just setting the state for the canon divergence, things will start picking up from the next chapter onwards.

while i have some stuff prewritten, it's not enough to have a regular posting schedule, so make sure to follow the story for update notifications!

hope you like it, tell me what you think 3

It had been raining for four days straight.

Since the moment Harry had stepped into Privet Drive, it seemed like the entire ecosystem was trying to commiserate with his mood—the skies were pouring incessantly, flowers were wilted, and weeds were running roughshod over the entire back garden.

That's not to say that his Aunt hadn't tried —there were clear indicators that she'd attempted to perform some amateur gardening, but Harry didn't even have to be there to tell you how that would've gone. Plants and Aunt Petunia had an ironically bad relationship, despite how much she liked the pristine look of a well maintained lawn—so it had always fallen to Harry to take care of the entire operation.

In his absence, however, it was clearly the plants that had suffered. Harry briefly wondered why they didn't just hire a proper gardener before he remembered Uncle Vernon's distaste about spending a penny more than absolutely required. Casting another glance over the quite sad looking lawn, Harry barely managed to restrain a snort. He would've thought Aunt Petunia's concern for her social image would've won over her husband's stingy nature, but apparently not.

He just knew he'd be set to work the first possible moment. He couldn't wait.

In the meantime, though, he was given strict instructions to keep all his stuff in Dudley's second room (never his, of course, even after all these years) and come right back down for his instructions.

Barely holding in a sigh, he nodded and with a bit of effort—because god forbid any of them lend a hand—managed to get his trunk and Hedwig's cage up the stairs in one trip. He kicked the door inward with his foot and immediately started coughing at the literal cloud of dust that blew into his face the second it opened.

Heart sinking in despair, Harry slowly let his eyes trail over the visibly settled dust he could see coating every single habitable surface of the room. The Dursleys hadn't even done him the bare minimum of putting a sheet over the bed, which meant he had to thoroughly clean the entire thing before he could so much as put his jacket on top of it. He'd wanted nothing more than to crash as soon as he'd gotten to the house—the end of the year exhaustion only made worse by everything that had happened this year and having to see the Dursleys, who'd somehow gotten nastier , after so long. Now he wouldn't be able to do that, not until he properly cleaned and disinfected the entire room, including the floorboards.

Harry was sure they'd done this on purpose. Aunt Petunia couldn't abide by mess under her roof, but once again, he'd miscalculated. Their distaste for their nephew and desire to make his life harder definitely took precedence over her obsession with cleanliness.

This time he didn't hold in the massive sigh building up in his chest—not to mention it was necessary to dispel the amount of dust he'd inhaled. He looked longingly at his wand for a second, wishing desperately he could use magic just this once to speed up the cleaning process but didn't dwell on the impossible thought too long. Maybe this would be the year he finally mastered wandless magic out of sheer desperation? One could only hope.

Lost in his thoughts as he was—there was something so immensely tempting about being able to cast magic in this house without the possibility of punishment that he couldn't take his mind off it—he didn't realise that he'd failed to deposit his things and go downstairs like instructed.

It was an impatient 'Boy!' shouted up the stairs that moved his arse into gear. He gingerly stepped into the room, wincing when each movement of his shoe against the floor triggered a puff of dust. He placed his trunk vertically against the foot of the bed, and Hedwig's cage—thankfully empty. His faithful companion would come by sometime later—on top of it, trying to minimise the surface area exposed to the dirty ground.

Once he'd finished, he threw one last disgusted look around the room and headed straight for the stairs, dreading the moment he had to come back. It was like a case of being stuck between a rock and a hard place, except the two options were the Dursleys and his mausoleum of a room. Neither particularly appealing options but the latter barely, barely came out on top. It wasn't saying much, though, considering it's competition.

"Took you long enough." Was what greeted him as he got off the last step.

"Wasn't my fault—the room looked like it belonged in a crypt instead of this wonderful suburban home," Harry retorted, only barely keeping the irritation out of his voice.

"Watch the cheek, boy," Uncle Vernon said gruffly. "It's not enough we're feeding and housing you, you expect us to give you a five star treatment on top of that?"

It took everything in Harry to bite down the retort forming at the tip of his tongue. It was only just the first day of the Summer Break, he didn't want to make things tense this early in the game—not when he had two months of staying in the same house with them to look forward to.

Realising Harry wasn't going to rise to the bait, Uncle Vernon's moustache twitched.

"Hmph," he grunted, eyeing him suspiciously. "I expect you to keep all your- your hanky panky well locked up. Not one word about your- life, you hear?"

"Yes, Uncle Vernon."

"And don't think that you'll be allowed to roam around aimlessly. I expect you to earn your keep, so your chores have to be completed well in time every day, you understand?"

"Yes, Uncle Vernon."

"If I hear a single peep from you—"

"No, Uncle Vernon."

His continued acquiescence earned him a look of heavy suspicion, but the man wouldn't ever know that he was basically biting his tongue raw every time he so much as looked in Harry's direction. He was serious when he said he didn't want to make things harder for themselves than they already were. Previous experience told him that it was only going to get worse, so if mechanical agreement was going to keep him on his uncle's good side for the time being (until shit inevitably hit the ceiling) then he was going to take it. He didn't have the energy to do much more, not with the daily nightmares and the chronic lack of sleep and—everything.

"Well, get to it then. I expect you to be down here, helping your aunt with dinner in an hour, got it?" In lieu of an answer, Harry just nodded in response before darting up the stairs to tackle the big task in front of him, stifling a sigh at the thought of it as he stepped into the room again.

Well. Nothing for it then, he thought while rolling up his sleeves, best get this done before dinner if he wanted to sleep. Not like he'd get any chance after this.

Things didn't get any better after that. His… family had only gotten worse, the rain wouldn't stop pouring, and it seemed like his public perception in Privet Drive was at an all time low. Apparently distance making the heart grow fonder was a myth if the scowls and old-ladies-crossing-the-road-to-avoid-him was any indication.

On a more personal front, he was proud to announce that his nightmares had only gotten more harrowing and gruesome. Cedric's lifeless eyes and still body was a constant companion, painted across the back of his eyes every time he woke up with the other boy's name on his lips. He'd taken to stuffing his fist in his mouth, biting down on his knuckles, in an attempt to stifle his screams after the first couple nights he'd waken the entire household with them. Uncle Vernon's hateful beady eyes and the sting of a cane was still embedded deep enough in his consciousness for him to be wary of the possibility.

His days followed a predictable pattern, bleeding into each other, practically unrecognisable. Each morning he wakes up with the sun, with bruises darker than the day before under his eyes. He gets done with the cleaning, takes a bath when it's too early for Dudley to barge in and throw him out with soap suds still trailing behind him, and gets started on breakfast just as the rest for the occupants start getting up for the day. By the time everyone is dressed and sitting around the table, he's practiced enough to have an assortment of warm foods set up. Of course, he'll only get a couple slices of toast, buttered if he's lucky enough, but he's become resigned to it. It's not as if he's hungry enough for more—it was a big deal just keeping that meagre amount down these days. Once Uncle Vernon is off it's a little easier to breathe. The house feels less oppressive and Harry can actually raise his eyes off the ground, unclench his jaw for a second. This is a realisation he has every time he comes back from Hogwarts: how much he takes for granted the simple action of being able to say what he wanted. Being back at the Dursleys was relearning all the defensive manoeuvres he'd worn like a winter cloak—seasonally used, stashed in the closet when away, but definitely necessary for survival now that he was back in this atmosphere. It was a depressing realisation but a necessary one if he's to get through the months until the next term begins.

The rest of the day after that isn't better, necessarily, but it's filled with grunt work that works relatively well at keeping his mind off…everything else, so he'll take it. Repetitive, mindless, not requiring an ounce of effort other than physical. Before he knows it, the sun's casting hues of orange, yellow, and purple across the sky, the temperature has cooled and Uncle Vernon's car can be heard parking into the driveway.

Harry wiped his brow with the rag he kept stuffed in his back pocket before moving to check on the roast in the oven. Aunt Petunia was out with Dudley—something about buying new underwear? He didn't care why they were gone as long as they were—and while he'd hoped they'd be back before his uncle, there's nothing to be done for it now. He quickly put the mashed peas back on the stove, a low flame to keep it warm but not hot , and popped the tray of biscuits in the oven so they would be finished just in time for a post-dinner snack.

Just as the sound of keys jingling in the lock makes its way to his ears, he stepped back to the sink, gloves on and head down. By the time Uncle Vernon trudged into the kitchen, shoes trailing a thing trail of dirt that would be next on the list to clean up, Harry's elbow deep into the dishes.

"Still at it, boy?" Uncle Vernon grunted, bypassing him to fill a glass of water for himself. Harry chose to stay quiet, scrubbing the pan in his hands with slightly more vigour than the non-stick coating required. "Better have finished everything else in the yard."

"Yes, Uncle Vernon," he mumbled.

"Whazzat?"

" Yes , Uncle Vernon," Harry said, louder.

"None of that sass from you now," was the immediate response and it was slightly concerning how badly Harry wanted to slam the ladle in his hand down on either his own head or Uncle Vernon's. Instead, he took a deep breath and gave a tight nod. Another half hour, at most, and he could leave. Done for the day. Go back to his room and stew in his own thoughts, no reprieve and no relief. Joy.

"I'm going to change. Make sure the table is set by then." Uncle Vernon looked pointedly at him and only when he nodded in assent did he go back the way he came. Harry could hear the sound of his thundering footsteps going up the stairs and allowed himself to exhale loudly.

Not even a week in and he was already at the end of his tether. He didn't want to know how things could get worse from here. That they wouldn't wasn't even an option. If there was anything he'd learnt over the years, it was that they will —the only question was how much and how fast.