Harry opened his eyes. He was in Dudley's second bedroom, lying on the floor. When his uncle had thrown him in, he hadn't even managed to reach the bed—he had simply fallen asleep there, or more likely, passed out.
Everything hurt. Vernon hadn't held back. With a sigh, Harry tried to assess the extent of the damage. His jaw ached where Vernon had landed the first punch. He cautiously tried opening and closing his mouth—it hurt, but not in the way a broken bone would. He was familiar with that feeling.
He touched his face and, as he expected, found a sticky substance, partly dried; it was coming from his split lip, which was swollen and throbbing. His chest was another story—it was perhaps the worst pain of all, and breathing was difficult. Harry hoped fervently that nothing was broken.
In his mind, he could replay the scene that led to each injury.
He remembered how Vernon had lunged at him; he had taken three punches before falling to the ground. He tried to get up quickly, but barely made it to his knees before the kicks began landing on his ribs.
And that was how it went. Between one insult and the next, Vernon kept on berating him while raining blows. Harry could barely make out the insults through the haze of pain. The only positive note was that his uncle's bulk slowed him down, and usually, Vernon would stop only when he was out of breath. But not before he had fully vented his fury on his nephew.
Harry attempted to stand up, slowly, being careful not to put weight on his injuries. He moved towards the lumpy mattress. The resentment, anger, and humiliation he felt in that moment were overwhelming—beaten by a useless Muggle.
If only the magical world could see their little hero now, he thought bitterly.
He hated that he could hold his own against Voldemort, yet couldn't stand up to a pathetic, blubbery man.
He hated feeling so afraid of this whale of a man, and hated that he couldn't fight back. Because, as always, the moment he returned to the Dursleys, all magic—and by extension, his only means of defence—was locked away, sealed up in the cupboard under the stairs.
He turned his head towards the window, where the moon was still out, stars faintly visible. How he wished he had his Firebolt and could just fly off into the night, escape his violent relatives, escape all those who called him a liar for saying Voldemort had returned.
He would have gladly run away—from all the accusatory looks, the judgments, the insults. It was all too much. He was tired of carrying it all. He was exhausted.
He looked away. There was no point wishing for things he could never have. He would never have a normal life. He would always be Harry Potter, wherever he went; he would always be "The Chosen One," with all the responsibilities that came with it.
There were people who envied his life—even Ron had, once. But the truth was, Harry would trade it all in a heartbeat. He'd give anything to be just a normal boy. Just Harry.
Sometimes he imagined what his life would be like without the scar, with loving parents, no responsibilities, no fame.
Harry shook his head to stop himself from drifting too far into introspection. The persistent pain was a constant reminder that these would only ever be fantasies. He eventually drifted into a fitful sleep, but the ache made it impossible for his body to fully relax.
He woke to hard knocks on the door, and his aunt's shrill voice cut through his thoughts.
"Up! Get down here and make breakfast, boy!"
He stepped out of the room, and Aunt Petunia gave him a withering look. "Clean yourself up first. I won't have you dragging your mess into my kitchen." With that, she turned and left.
He sighed, heading to the bathroom. He didn't expect any pity from his aunt, but it never stopped surprising him how cold she could be.
Looking in the mirror wasn't easy. Bruises were already blooming along his jaw, beneath his right eye, and there was a split on his lip. Usually, Vernon tried not to leave visible marks in his face, but this time, he hadn't bothered.
Carefully, Harry removed his shirt; his shoulder still burned from the injury he'd got with the fight at school, and the cut that hadn't fully closed yet. He did his best to replace the bandage, then took a look at himself to gauge the damage. Bruises had already spread across his chest in various colours—mostly red, with hints of purple that would darken over the next few days.
His elbow was another source of pain, and Harry wondered tiredly if it would be easier just to list what didn't hurt.
At the moment, there was little he could do; he had no potions on hand.
Normally, he prepared a stash for the summer, but this stay with the Dursleys had come up unexpectedly, so he hadn't had the chance.
In his first year, he'd desperately searched for ways to survive the summers, and potions had been the answer. That was why he'd poured so much energy into improving his skills until he was quite good at it. Not that Snape would ever acknowledge it. When it came to Harry, it was like Snape saw nothing but James Potter, and nothing Harry did would ever change that.
At first, his eleven-year-old self had been crushed that he couldn't impress his teacher, but eventually, he understood that Snape would just be another adult in his life who hated him on principle.
He sighed heavily, pressing his forehead against the mirror's cold surface. He closed his eyes, letting himself have a moment. Helplessness and fear were what he felt most often these days.
The urge to cry washed over him again, like it had so many times lately. He wanted so badly to let it all out. It wasn't fair. He couldn't understand how so many people could despise him.
After a few moments, he gathered himself, straightened up, and took a deep breath. His reflection in the mirror looked tired but determined. He would make it through this stay with the Dursleys. He always did. He always found a way to get through the summer, and he would this time too.
He cleaned himself up, taking care not to aggravate the bruises, and, avoiding his own reflection, went out to face another day in the Dursley household.
Downstairs, the Dursleys were already having breakfast. Every so often, Dudley threw him a glance, and though Harry couldn't quite read his expression, it wasn't as hostile as usual. When he'd come downstairs and Dudley had seen his face, he'd thrown a disappointed look at his father, who promptly ignored it.
Dudley looked like he wanted to say something, but couldn't seem to find the words. Harry thought it was probably for the best; he didn't want his uncle to lash out just because he tought Harry had confused his Son.
Breakfast was tense. Harry kept out of sight in the kitchen, serving the meal as carefully as he could, hoping not to draw attention. Vernon didn't acknowledge him, not even with a glance, and Harry was grateful. Petunia, however, seemed to blame him for what had happened, her cold looks making that perfectly clear.
Harry felt a surge of relief when he saw Vernon getting ready to head off to work.
"Don't think you're off the hook, boy. I don't want to see you idling around," Petunia sneered, holding out a list. "Finish this by tonight—or maybe I'll just let Vernon know you've been slacking off."
Harry loathed the self-satisfied smirk on her face, as if she knew she had him trapped. But, as always, he kept his anger in check. There was no point arguing; it would only make things worse.
He'd learned that the hard way last year. He'd tried standing up for himself, shouting and arguing, but all it had earned him was more pain. So, he swallowed his pride, yet again, and did what he had to do to survive.
The days passed, and Harry still hadn't heard anything from Sirius or his friends. He felt betrayed that even Dumbledore hadn't contacted him—the Headmaster had spent the entire year avoiding him. Harry could definitely add him to the list of adults who had let him down.
On the evening of the fourth day, just when he was beginning to lose hope, he heard a tapping at the window. With immense relief, he let Hedwig in, overjoyed to see her—but she wasn't alone. With her was another owl he didn't recognize.
He took the first letter and, with a surge of relief, noticed it was from Hermione. He read the contents and, frustrated, tossed the letter aside. There was no new information—Travis still hadn't woken up, and no one was talking about it. The letter was short, unlike the usual detailed ones Hermione sent, and Harry wondered what was going on at Hogwarts.
He looked absentmindedly at the other letter. It wasn't signed, and he took it from the owl, giving the bird a quick pat in thanks. He turned the envelope over in his hands.
It was plain, unmarked. He wondered if it was wise to open it without checking for curses, but curiosity got the better of him.
The letter was harmless; inside was a single piece of parchment with a short, simple message written in neat handwriting: "Do not leave the wards."
A wave of worry washed over Harry. Why shouldn't he leave?
Something was happening, and the lack of information was starting to frustrate him.
He was distracted by the sound of a car door slamming. His uncle was back. The frustration and confusion faded.
For the past four days, his uncle hadn't given him a moment's peace, and Harry's whole body ached. Since his arrival, Harry had been made to clean and re-clean the house, while Aunt Petunia had grown irritable at the lack of chores to assign him.
When he finished each task, she simply sent him back to his room.That suited him fine; being in his room meant he didn't have to endure his relatives' company.
He went downstairs, knowing he'd have to serve the meal Aunt Petunia had prepared. She liked cooking, but she seemed to enjoy having someone else do it for her even more.
He moved quickly into the kitchen, where Aunt Petunia gave him a sharp look before sitting down at the table.
Harry set the food down, noticing with horror that there were wine bottles placed on the table.
Back in the kitchen, he took a deep breath. His hands were shaking. This was going to be bad. His uncle was violent enough without alcohol, but when he drank, things always got worse.
Thankfully, his uncle didn't drink often, but when he did… well, let's just say Harry's worst nightmares starred a drunk Vernon.
No matter how hard he tried, Harry couldn't calm his breathing. He could hear the Dursleys talking, their voices cheerful, and when he peeked out, he saw Vernon down a glass of wine in one go.
Harry desperately hoped his uncle would drink so much that he'd pass out, but experience told him that wasn't likely—not before a "little chat."
Time seemed to drag on agonizingly slow in the kitchen as he listened to the sounds coming from the dining room.
He counted the number of times his uncle refilled his glass and realized he had already crossed the "safe limit."
"Oi, freak, get your arse in here and bring me another bottle!"
Bringing over the very thing that would make his situation worse felt like a death sentence, but he had no choice.
He entered the room and caught Dudley's nervous glance. Harry handed the bottle to his uncle, feeling as though he'd just sealed his own fate.
Too soon for his liking, he finished cleaning the kitchen. He barely had time to retreat to his room when his uncle called out.
"Boy, get in here!"
Panic seized Harry's chest, and dread flooded his mind. His feet carried him against his will into the living room.
There was Vernon, sitting on the sofa, beer in hand, while Dudley sat in an armchair nearby, his eyes darting anxiously toward his father. Aunt Petunia was nowhere to be seen.
"Dinner was a complete disaster. The chicken was inedible," Vernon growled, his voice rising with rage. "Do you enjoy wasting good food, you freak?"
The unfairness of it all stung—he hadn't even cooked tonight. Acting on impulse, he said something he instantly regretted.
"But it was Aunt Pet—"
In a flash, his fat uncle was on him. A swift punch landed on the side of Harry's head.
"How dare you blame your aunt for your failures! You're useless, just like your father!" Vernon sneered, delivering another punch to Harry's cheekbone.
Pain was becoming a constant in Harry's life. He fell to the floor after the second blow and tried to get up, only to be met with two swift kicks to his ribs that left him gasping for air.
"DAD!" Dudley was still in the room; Vernon hadn't bothered to send him away this time.
Vernon seemed not to hear, continuing to kick Harry in the ribs.
A sickening crack echoed through the room, and the pain was unbearable.
Everything went black. Harry couldn't focus on anything. It felt like he was underwater, unable to breathe.
Time seemed to freeze, and Harry had no idea if seconds or hours had passed.
When he could finally make sense of his surroundings again, he noticed, with a sense of distant curiosity, that his uncle was lying on the floor, unable to get up. Maybe he'd passed out from the alcohol, Harry thought absently—at least that's what he assumed, until a hand appeared in his line of vision.
It was blurry—he must have lost his glasses—but the hand was unmistakably Dudley's.
He struggled to his feet, and Dudley pressed his glasses into his hands, which Harry quickly put on.
His cousin looked anxious but determined.
"You've got to leave. He won't stay like this for long. You need to get out."
Harry was confused; the pain was overwhelming, and he wondered if he was imagining all of this, maybe dreaming.
"Harry, focus… You have to go."
Harry tried to pull himself together, realizing how serious this was. He looked around, taking in the scene and understanding what had happened. Dudley had stopped his father from hurting him further.
He felt bewildered, shocked.
"Why… why did you do that?"
A nervous laugh escaped Dudley.
"Oh, come on… I know I haven't exactly been the nicest to you before. But even when I was a complete idiot to you, you still saved me. I was wrong, Harry, and I'm sorry."
Harry didn't know how to respond, didn't know what to feel.
"But now you've got to go, before he wakes up. Otherwise, he'll just keep going. Get out. Come back when he's asleep." Dudley hesitated for a moment, then added, "Maybe… maybe it's better if you don't come back at all. You can't keep living like this, Harry."
Harry cut him off, not wanting to explain why he had to go back.
"And you—he'll figure out it was you who did this."
Dudley let out a bitter laugh. "Oh, I don't think he'll remember anything after all the wine he drank." A noise came from the figure on the floor, and Dudley urged him on. "Now go."
So Harry took hesitant steps toward the door, limping as he went. The cold breeze hit him, making him shiver as he slowly walked down the dark streets of Privet Drive.
The warning letter was the last thing on his mind at that moment.
Here I am with another chapter; I'd really love to know what you think.