From the Ashes

-Book 1 of His Name is Riddle-

Chapter 1
To Hell With It

Thursday, 27 June 1996 - Nine days after the death of Sirius Black

For once in his life, Harry didn't mind the often-heard command of, "Go to your room and stay there," which he'd come to expect from Number 4, Privet Drive. It was hard to say Harry really lived there, as truly, he didn't feel like he was living - existing might be a better description of what he was doing. There was very little he truly wanted to do. He had run out of tears days ago. Awaking or sleeping mattered little when the same memories ran repeatedly in his head, as if in an unending loop. Sirius's death and his slip into the veil. His chasing of Bellatrix Lestrange, harboring so much anger and pain that he tried to cast the Cruciatus Curse… only to not mean it enough. And finally, Professor Dumbledore confirming his deepest fear, that 'neither can live while the other survives. '

"Boy!" came the loud interruption to his isolation. "Boy, breakfast!" came the morning call. Uncle Vernon was calling for Harry's services. Because heaven forbid anyone else in this house raise a finger. Harry didn't bother to answer verbally, but he knew the best outcome for him would be to comply, even considering all the outcomes were bad. He was already in enough trouble for not getting to the task sooner. He walked down the stairs from his bedroom (or rather, Dudley's second bedroom), turning the corner to report to his duty in the kitchen.

Harry took some small comfort from the smell in the air, grateful that the coffee maker had at least run. He might be the lowest person in the house, but at least that machine did what he had set it to the night before.

"It's about time." Petunia said snidely, looking up from her magazine as he entered the kitchen.

"Boy, if I am late to work because of you…" Vernon threatened, wagging a pudgy finger at Harry, then returning to his newspaper.

"Sorry, Uncle Vernon. Apologies, Aunt Petunia." He replied, as was expected from him. Reflexively, from too many years of habit, Harry quickly set a pot to boil for the eggs and loaded the toaster. While those heated, he poured two cups of coffee and walked around an oblivious Dudley, who was listening to music on his headphones, towards his aunt and uncle, who already seemed to be ignoring him again.

"That's more like it," his uncle muttered as he sipped his coffee and continued reading his issue of The Times. "Good for nothing nephew." Harry heard as the first two pieces of toast popped out. He reloaded the toaster, dripped three eggs into the boiling water, then poured some cereal and brought it over to his aunt and uncle.

As he returned to the kitchen, he was halted by Petunia clearing her throat. "Ahem,"

Harry turned around. "Yes, ma'am?"

Petunia simply gestured to Dudley. "You seemed to have forgotten your dear cousin. Surely you don't want his little tummy growling."

"Of course not, Aunt Petunia," Harry replied, returning to what he was about to do anyway. Dudley soon had his cereal, toast, and orange juice before him, still bobbing his head to the music, ignoring everything outside his own world. When Harry returned to the stove, the eggs were done, so he made another trip to place the boiled eggs in front of the Dursley trio.

"Coffee," Vernon ordered bluntly, not even lifting his eyes from the page after finishing his first cup. Harry grabbed the coffee pot and brought it to the table for his uncle's refill.

Until Dudley couldn't resist the opportunity that Harry's bouncing back and forth provided, with the smoothness of a seasoned prankster, Dudley slid his foot into the path Harry had tread so many times. Tripping over it, Harry yelled as he fell to the floor, his chin catching the edge of the table and forcing him to bite his tongue hard. But any thought of his pain was quickly overshadowed when the coffee pot fell sideways, spilling its brew and landing squarely on Vernon's shirt. "Aghh!" he cried out as the steam rose from his shirt, scalding his chest.

Dudley snickered as Petunia cried out in disdain. "You did that on purpose!"

Regardless of his injuries, Harry's attention was focused on his rising uncle. "You ungrateful mongrel!" Vernon cried out in pain from the burns. Just as Harry lifted his head from the table, it was at the perfect striking distance for Vernon to clench his fist and backhand Harry in fury. The force of the impact, while Harry was still unbalanced, threw him to the floor next to the wall.

"I-I'm so sorry, Uncle." Harry begged, cowering.

"After everything we've done for you!" Vernon shouted, his chair falling backward as he stood. With a speed Harry had never seen before, the man rose and kicked Harry squarely in the chest. "Worthless nephew. You'll be sorry," Vernon sneered, glaring down at Harry.

Harry briefly looked back to the table. As usual, Petunia sat quiet and emotionless, while Dudley grinned.

Harry had taken his beatings before; pain had become an old friend. But it was Dudley's grin that truly registered in Harry's mind. He had seen it before, on the faces of Death Eaters whenever one of them or Voldemort toyed with him. Now, the expression he had seen only in the shadows of the magical world followed him into the light of the Muggle world. Monsters on both sides seemed pleased to reduce his suffering to mere entertainment. Irrelevant, useless, disposable. How much had he already endured? Both here and at Hogwarts? How many injuries? How much of his blood had he left splattered in both worlds? How much pain would he have to feel before he finally hit rock bottom?

"Well?" Vernon goaded. "Get up!" Slowly, with a glare he had never directed at his uncle before, Harry lifted himself against the wall. He didn't know if he was surrendering to the inevitable chaos of his life or beginning to rebel against it, but in that moment, Harry truly felt the anger and grief of the past two weeks rise to the surface, and it steeled him.

As another backhanded swing came toward his face, Harry's hand shot up and stopped it dead. "No," he said simply, staring daggers at his uncle. Gripping the fist tightly, the sixteen-year-old stood up and threw Vernon's hand to the side.

In shock, Vernon stammered, his face reddening, "What is the meaning of this?"

"It means no. No more! We are done with this!" Harry cried, pushing his uncle backward into the smirking Dudley. The pair of them toppled onto the table, breaking it. Petunia barely managed to slide out of the way before getting caught.

He didn't run in fear but marched with determination to the room where he slept. Throwing on his gray hoodie, he packed quickly and with little thought. His wand—a must. His Gringotts money sack—logical. A handful of letters from owls over the years—sentimental. He glanced briefly at his Hogwarts trunk, but summer had barely begun, and there were two months until school re-started. He grabbed a few sentimental items and stuffed them into his well-worn backpack, then paused to take one last look at the stark room.

The only question was the snowy owl in the cage. Harry raised his wand to the window but then remembered the blasted rules of underage magic. He pocketed his wand, grabbed one of Dudley's broken toys, and threw it at the glass, shattering it open. He opened Hedwig's cage and gestured toward the open window. "Fly and follow me. We'll figure it out."

With a steady march, Harry thudded down the stairs as Petunia tried to tend to Vernon's burns. Even while being treated, the man still bellowed, pointing a finger. "Boy! If you walk through that door, don't you ever plan to come back in again!"

Harry stopped just long enough to turn to all three of his remaining relatives. From the bottom of his heart, and sixteen years of contempt, he glared at them and simply said, "Go… to… hell!" He deliberately slammed the door on the Dursleys and continued marching with determined strides to the right. He had no particular destination yet—just anywhere but there. He looked up, relieved to see Hedwig soar between the bars of his broken window. "Good girl," he whispered.

He managed three blocks under his feet before he finally started to calm down enough to think. Harry began a mental assessment of himself. The taste of blood in his mouth told him he'd definitely done a number on his tongue. He could feel the puffiness around his left eye, already turning black, and as the adrenaline wore off, he noticed the sharp pain in his side—at least one cracked rib. "What I wouldn't give for a Pepperup Potion right now," he mumbled. Remembering he was in the Muggle world, he took the next logical step. "Need to get to the Alley," he deduced.

Harry was trying to do the mental math to estimate how long his walk to Diagon Alley would be, but it was still the closest point in the wizarding world he knew. Eventually, he gave up when he realized he no longer had a curfew, so the distance didn't matter. Just as he had decided on a destination and was starting to feel the pain in his chest, an impossibly fast blur shot down the road. The speed and blue color were familiar, marking the first good thing to happen to Harry today. The Knight Bus came to a jarring halt in front of him.

In his dazed state, Harry had unknowingly pointed his wand, and the bus arrived in response to his unconscious summon.

The door opened to a familiar sight from three years prior, and the echoes of the day replaying in Harry's mind.

"Right, Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard in need. My name is-"

"Stan." Harry finished with a small grin.

"What?" the driver replied. "No, I'm Dan."

Harry cocked his head to the side. "Oh, I'm sorry. I took the bus a few years back and thought your name was Stan."

"Day or night?" the driver asked.

"It was dark out so… night," Harry replied.

The driver nodded in understanding. "That was Stan. He drives nights. I drive days. Twins are a thing you know," he smiled.

"Ah, sorry."

"Happens all the time," Dan waved dismissively. "Where to?"

"Leaky Cauldron, please," Harry answered, giving him a Galleon.

"Right-o, make yourself comfortable."

Harry quickly sat on the first vacant bed and rested his head against the brass corner post. This time, he didn't bother looking out the window to see the blur of close calls and impossible turns of the magical vehicle. He didn't care. Dan's explanation reminded him of another set of twins he knew, with red hair, just like the rest of their family. Part of him loved the idea of visiting the Weasleys, but considering the reasons for today, another part of him dreaded it. But, as today's theme seemed to be 'what the hell', he quickly resigned himself to it. At least he knew the Weasleys always kept his name on their home floo permissions, so he settled on the next step in his journey.

The Knight Bus stopped with a jolt, although Harry barely noticed. "Leaky Cauldron," Dan called from over his shoulder. A few other mages got off ahead of Harry but he followed them. He nodded to Dan, and thanked the driver as he passed. No sooner had he stepped off the bus did it dash away, the wind it produced blowing his already messy hair. Harry looked up and saw Hedwig perched on a nearby rooftop. He shook his head. He didn't know how she did it. He looked at his snowy owl for a moment, and it seemed to nod its head, as if understanding the new destination, before leaping into the air in flight. Harry took comfort in the knowledge that the bird had made the trip multiple times.

Entering the wizarding world, Harry pulled his hood up. Wearing Muggle clothes was bad enough; the last thing he wanted was to be recognized. Fortunately, being early in the morning and early in the summer meant that traffic in the Cauldron was minimal—a far cry from the standing-room-only crowd it often was just before the start of term. Harry walked over to the Floo and looked for the powder. There was none... but there was a sign: See staff for Floo powder. Keeping his head low, Harry walked over to the bar where a middle-aged, portly fellow was polishing glasses. "Ello," he greeted.

Harry slipped a couple sickles on the bar. "One ounce of floo powder please."

"Right," the bartender nodded as he took the sickles and dropped the change and a pre-packaged paper envelope where the sickles had been. Then he went back to work, paying Harry no mind. Harry let out the breath he had been holding, happy to see this was all a normal occurrence for the bar. He grabbed the knuts and pocketed them. Floo powder in hand he paused, looking at the flames, and sighed. Again, he was torn. He always looked forward to the Burrow, but he hated this trip's circumstances. But again, keeping with the theme of the day, he muttered to himself, "Hell with it." He ripped the envelope and threw the powder.

"Weasley Burrow."