Chapter Text
Harry gingerly picked himself up off of the kitchen floor, stooping to pick up the shards of porcelain that had fallen with him. The skinny 15-year-old had been washing the dishes after serving a dinner he himself did not have the privilege of eating, when Vernon suddenly kicked his legs out from under him. Caught off guard, Harry had landed flat on his rear onto the hard tile, his tailbone taking the brunt of the impact.
Vernon, now guffawing loudly at his accomplishment, had recently been burning nervous energy by picking on his nephew more often and more harshly than usual. The heavyset man was expecting a promotion at his firm, and dealt with his anticipatory stress by dealing blows. Whereas Harry had long been used to verbal assaults and the occasional slap, kick, or cuffing, Vernon had lately taken to lashing out every time he saw his nephew, doling out heavier beatings every evening after work and excluding the teenager from meals more often than not.
Harry straightened and dusted off his hands, wincing as his various bruises protested. He felt the now-familiar tingling sensation of his magic healing the worst of his injury, and thanked his lucky stars that it would also speed up the healing process. He cautiously took a few steps towards the bathroom, noting the tenderness in his tailbone that this brought about.
I look a right mess, Harry thought to himself as he eyed his gaunt reflection in the mirror. His eyes were all but eclipsed by the prominent purple shadows underneath them, his sunken cheeks causing his cheekbones to jut painfully out from his face as if trying to escape. Harry sighed and scrubbed his hands, wincing as the soap stung his inflamed and bitten nails, and wished he could clean himself of the sense of shame that his uncle’s behavior imparted to him. He resigned himself to the knowledge that at least he bore no outward signs of the beatings. Dudley’s hand-me-down clothing hid all signs of the encounters and Vernon always made sure to avoid Harry’s face.
Once he finished with the dishes, Harry limped outside to weed the garden and finish the last of his long list of chores, a task that was becoming harder and harder to complete. Since returning to Privet Drive, Harry’s sleep had been marred by vivid nightmares about Cedric and Sirius’ deaths, and he often found himself waking up to full-blown panic attacks which left him sobbing and gasping for breath. Sometimes, his screaming would wake up his aunt and uncle, inevitably driving the latter to administer a beating. As a result, Harry sometimes chose not to sleep at all rather than subject himself to the guilt and fear that his subconscious brought. The weeks of sleep deprivation and malnourishment had been taking their toll on him, and Harry found that he could barely muster enough energy to stand upright, let alone finish a gargantuan pile of housework. It was his magic alone that kept him going.
Pulling up the persistent crop of dandelions, Harry attempted to fight off the rising sense of dread that now made itself known every evening. His hunched form heaved with shuddering breaths as his hands trembled and his panic increased. Eventually, he could take it no more and shakily returned to his room to wash up and await the inevitable.
The hot steam of the shower soothed Harry’s tense form and allowed him a rare moment of comfort. His chest sported a trellis of brilliant purples, blues, and yellows mottled over prominent ribs and hip bones, a patchwork that made itself known whenever Harry moved too suddenly or twisted the wrong way. His feet, too, bore the evidence of his uncle’s treatment. The latter would often step on one of Harry’s feet when giving him orders, leaning in all of his weight to tower threateningly over him. Luckily for Harry, however, Vernon had never gone so far as to break a bone or cause any injury that might require medical attention.
As Harry turned off the water and stepped out of the shower to gently towel off his emaciated form, his heart dropped. Shit, he thought. I forgot to mow the lawn. Given Vernon’s recently volatile mood, Harry knew he was in for it this time. He hadn’t missed an item on his chore list since he was 10, and that time he had his nose broken and was locked in his cupboard for a week. The all-too-familiar sense of panic rose once more, undoing the small amount of good the shower had done him. Harry quickly dressed and hurried to his room, where he attempted to calm himself by talking to Hedwig.
“Ok girl, I think it might get ugly tonight. You’re gonna want to clear out for a bit. Go catch yourself a nice juicy mouse or something.” She hooted reassuringly and nipped gently at Harry’s outstretched finger. In spite of himself, he smiled.
“It’s okay girl, I can take care of myself. Uncle Vernon wouldn’t hurt me that bad, I don’t think. Nothing a little magic can’t fix,” he added, mostly to calm himself. He bit his lip. After a moment, he opened the drawer of his bedside table and pulled out a mangled scrap of parchment. On it, Harry had written “Number 4 Privet Drive” as a part of an old letter to Sirius asking him to pick him up. He had ripped up the letter after Sirius’ death but couldn’t bear to throw away the shreds. As he held the scrap of parchment, Harry felt a pang in his chest not caused by any of his injuries. Now, he thought, this might come in handy if things took a turn for the worse.
“Hedwig,” he began quietly, turning to the bird. “If things get real bad, I want you to bring this to someone and get help.” Harry paused, thinking about whom the recipient should be. He wouldn’t be able to face Hermione or the Weasleys if ever his shameful secret got out, and he didn’t want to worry Lupin as his health was frail enough as it was. Hagrid, perhaps? Yes, he was trustworthy, kind, and never pitied Harry. Hagrid it was.
“Bring it to Hagrid, if you can. Do you think you can make it all the way to Hogwarts?” Hedwig cooed and Harry took that as a yes. “I really don’t think it will get to that point, but best to have a plan I suppose.” At that, Harry blanched as he heard his uncle’s car pull into the driveway. He hurriedly tied the note onto Hedwig’s leg and ushered her out the window, preparing to face his uncle’s certain fury upon seeing the unmown lawn.
As if on cue, his uncle’s voice rang out. “BOY!!!” Vernon thundered. “Come down here this instant!” Harry gulped and steeled his nerves as he made his way downstairs to face a Vernon purple with rage. “What is the meaning of this?” he seethed, lumbering toward his nephew and looming over him menacingly.
“The meaning of what?” Harry asked neutrally, deciding to play dumb.
“Don’t you give me cheek, boy!” Vernon spat. “We specifically told you to mow the lawn today and what did you do? You goofed off as usual! We take you in out of kindness, out of the goodness of our hearts, and you throw it in our faces! If you hadn’t shown up and caused so much stress in our lives, I would have gotten that promotion at work! You would have been better off dying along with your freakish parents, you worthless, ungrateful brat!”
Rage boiled up inside Harry, replacing the earlier fear. “Don’t you dare speak about my parents like that,” he snapped, matching his uncle’s level of venom. “I swear, if you ever—” Vernon cut him off with a roar and a hand to his throat, pushing him up against the wall.
“I will not be threatened in my own home!” he exploded, spittle flying into Harry’s face. Harry, unable to speak and barely able to breath, simply glared back violently. “I should have known we could never stamp the rot out of you. I don’t care what your kind say anymore. One more strike, and you will find yourself without a home!” He punctuated this last word with a fearsome punch to Harry’s gut and released his grip, causing the latter to fall to the ground with a gasp.
Rubbing his throat and staring daggers at the floor, Harry muttered, “As if that’s what I would ever call this place.”
Vernon let out another enraged scream and swooped down at his nephew, still curled vulnerably on the ground. He grabbed Harry’s arm in a vise-like grip and bent behind his back, pushing up towards Harry’s head with every word. “You selfish. Thankless. Useless. Freak!!” Harry gritted his teeth against the pain and fought back the urge to cry out, determined not to display any sign of weakness. Frustrated at his nephew’s lack of protest, Vernon twisted Harry’s shoulder out of its socket with a sickening pop that finally left the teenager shrieking at the white hot pain. He finished Harry off with a swift kick to the ribs that produced a wet crunch of its own. Satisfied, Vernon whirled to join his family upstairs. “Clean this up,” he spat at his nephew’s broken form. “And see to it that you get the lawn mown bright and early tomorrow morning.”
Once his uncle left, Harry let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding in and instantly regretted it as his left side panged in protest. Still curled up on the floor with his right arm lying limply on his back, Harry gasped in some shallow breaths in a vain attempt to calm himself without further jostling his ribs. As much as he tried to hold it in, a thin, reedy whine escaped from his lips as his side throbbed and his shoulder burned.
It was several minutes before Harry could even consider the possibility of trying to stand up. First, he tried to slide his right arm off his back, but found he couldn’t so much as wiggle his fingers without unbearable agony shooting up his arm all the way to his neck. He decided he would push himself into a keeling position, allowing gravity to free his arm in one swift motion. After taking a few painful steadying breaths, he hoisted himself up with his good arm, crying out as his right swung limply to his side. Grasping his right forearm in his other hand to place it in his lap, Harry felt his vision swim and willed himself to stay conscious. The thin, reedy whine betrayed him once more.
It took easily half an hour, but Harry eventually managed to stagger up to his room with his bad arm wrapped tightly around his waist. Every step, every breath was pure torture. How the hell am I supposed to mow the lawn now? He thought angrily to himself. He entered his room and closed the door just as Hedwig tapped at the window to be let in. Lurching over, Harry struggled to open the window with just one arm, but finally created enough of an opening for the owl to slip through. She perched at the end of his bed, seemingly asking if she should now follow through with his earlier instructions.
Harry sighed, then winced at the pain this action brought about. “I’m fine, girl. Really. It could be much worse. I’m not…It’s not that bad,” he said unconvincingly. “I don’t want to worry anyone. If it gets much worse, I promise we’ll tell Hagrid. But let’s just wait it out and see, ok? I think my magic will heal most of it tonight anyways.” This seemed to appease Hedwig, who hopped into her cage and settled down.
Harry stumbled to his bed, black spots floating in his vision by the time he lay down. He could only manage the shallowest of breaths, which, coupled with his lack of food and sleep, made him feel faint enough to finally get some rest. For the first time in weeks, he slept peacefully and dreamlessly.