The Worst Summer
Harry trailed after Aunt Petunia into the house, trying to be as quiet as possible, hoping that his aunt and uncle would forget about him while they dealt with Dudley. He listened to them fuss over their son as he tried to make a quiet but quick escape to his room, careful to avoid the creaky step.
“Who did it, son?” Uncle Vernon asked his son.
Dudley still hadn’t said anything, still in shock from the Dementor, but he chose that moment to open his mouth, though only a whimper came out. Harry hurried his pace, getting almost halfway up the staircase before disaster struck.
Aunt Petunia quieted Uncle Vernon down so that they could hear the words that Dudley was now whispering. Now that it was so silent—Harry had a half mind to start stomping up the stairs, making as much noise as possible so that his cousin wouldn’t be heard—his cousin’s unusually quiet voice could be heard clearly.
“Him.”
It felt like time slowed down as Uncle Vernon turned his head slowly to look at Harry, who had frozen on the stairs, panic starting to grow in his chest. He swallowed the lump forming in his throat and held his breath, waiting for the explosion that was sure to come. He didn’t dare make a sound—anything could set off his uncle, especially if something happened to his son.
“What have you done to my son, freak?” his tone was eerily calm, the only hint to his growing anger was the way he spat out the word freak. His calm tone wasn’t reassuring at all. Angry Vernon ran out of steam quickly. His punishments were harsh, but he could handle them with no complaints. Calm Vernon’s punishments, however, were cruel, and thankfully, he had seen this version of Uncle Vernon only a handful of times, only after his more blatant displays of accidental magic in public, such as when he turned his teacher’s wig blue or apparated/flew to his school’s roof. Or whenever Dudley was hurt, if it was even remotely his fault.
His attempts to defend himself were in vain, as they ignored him in favour of asking Dudley, who was very slowly regaining some colour on his face.
“What did he do, honey?” Aunt Petunia said, voice shaking. “Was it… Did he do m-magic?”
To Harry’s horror, Dudley nodded.
“I didn’t do anything to him!” Harry gripped the railing, his knuckles turning white from his tight grip. “I didn’t do anything to him, I swear, it wasn’t me.”
But nothing could’ve saved him as a moment later an owl swooped in from the open kitchen window, depositing a large envelope at Harry’s feet before flying out and disappearing as if it were never there to begin with.
Uncle Vernon’s calm rage started to spill over, the vein in his temple throbbing as he glared at where the owl had disappeared. Harry ignored his uncle’s complaints about owls as he ripped open the envelope and took out the thick parchment. His hands shook as he gripped the letter, eyes focused on the neat handwriting.
Dear Mr Potter,
We have received intelligence that you performed the Patronus Charm at twenty-three minutes past nine this evening in a Muggle-inhabited area and in the presence of a Muggle.
The severity of this breach of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery has resulted in your expulsion from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Ministry representatives will be calling at your place of residence shortly to destroy your wand.
As you have already received an official warning for a previous offence under Section 13 of the International Confederation of Warlocks’ Statute of Secrecy, we regret to inform you that your presence is required at a disciplinary hearing at the Ministry of Magic at 9 a.m. on the twelfth of August.
Hoping you are well,
Yours sincerely,
Mafalda Hopkirk
Improper Use of Magic Office
Ministry of Magic
Harry was going to throw up. Expelled?! How could he be expelled from Hogwarts? He was just trying to defend himself and his cousin. They would have both been dead if he hadn’t used the Patronus Charm! And he used it in front of his cousin, who already knew about magic? How was that breaking the Statute of Secrecy?
Harry’s breathing sped up, his heart pounding in his throat. Black spots filled his vision, and the room started spinning. The only thing that stayed still was the word expelled that was burned into his retinas. He didn’t think he’d be able to get rid of it anytime soon.
Hermione’s words from first year came back to him at once. “Now I’m going to bed before either one of you gets us killed, or worse, expelled ”. He had laughed when she said that at the time, agreeing with Ron that she needed to sort out her priorities, but now that he was actually expelled, he wasn’t so sure death was worse. At least he wouldn’t have to deal with this if he were dead. No Dursley, no Voldemort, and no innocent people dead.
But expelled… he’d have to stay here with the Dursleys, hearing them laugh as the Ministry officials snapped his wand. They would never allow him out of the house, instead using him as their personal slave all year long, and his punishment would get much worse if he were cut off from the wizarding world. He wouldn’t see his friends, and without a wand, any Death Eater could kill him so easily and he wouldn’t even be able to try to defend himself.
Harry was so lost in his spiralling thoughts that he almost didn’t notice a second owl dropping another letter at his feet nor his uncle coming up behind him until the first letter from the Ministry was snatched away from him, ripping the corner of the parchment.
Harry picked up the second letter and tore it open, reading Arthur Weasley’s warning to stay put where he was and not surrender his wand because Dumbledore was going to deal with the situation. The tight fist that he felt clenching his lungs released its hold slightly. Dumbledore might be keeping him in the dark about everything, but Harry knew that if he was involved, the situation would probably fix itself.
Or so he hoped.
Meanwhile, his uncle’s beady eyes scanned the Ministry letter, a sinister grin spreading on his round face as his eyes gleamed maniacally.
“You hear that, boy? No more of that freak school for you! I knew it was just a matter of time before they found out how horrible you are! I told you!” he laughed, gripping Harry’s arm and squeezing it as tight as he could just as his son had done earlier.
His smile dropped suddenly, the happiness at Harry’s expulsion gone in an instant, replaced by cold anger. “Now, you’ve hurt my Dudley, and we’re done with your freakiness. You’ll regret the day you were born, boy, mark my words!”
Uncle Vernon dragged him back down the stairs by his arm, his hold getting increasingly tighter as Harry protested. Vernon then deposited him unceremoniously on a kitchen chair, crossing his arms and staring at Harry.
“Now, I repeat, what did you do to my son? ”
“I did nothing! It wasn’t me!”
An argument broke out again, Dudley muttering about hearing voices in his head and feeling cold before Harry interrupted. “As if you’d never be happy again.”
“So, you used some spell to make Dudley hear voices and feel miserable. I’ll make you feel miserable, boy. We’ll see how you like magic once we’re done with you.”
“How many times do I have to tell you? I didn’t use magic on Dudley! It was Dementors!”
“What the hell are Dementors?”
“They’re the wizard prison guards,” Harry explained.
“And why should I believe you? Did you see anything, Dudders?” Vernon turned to his son, who shook his head.
“No, it was completely dark. I only saw the freak pointing his wand at me.”
“Muggles can’t see Dementors! That’s why you couldn’t see them.”
“Bloody convenient that, isn’t it? Why should we believe you, freak?” Uncle Vernon got up, leaning over Harry and grabbing his hair with his feast, tugging on it until Harry was looking up at his once again purpling face.
“I swear, I swear. I didn’t do anything! Please, Uncle Vernon!”
“I don’t—”
Whatever he was going to say was interrupted by the arrival of a third owl. Harry was seriously scared that the vein in his uncle’s temple was going to explode—not that he would mind very much—or that he would rip his hair from how hard his uncle was now pulling on his hair.
Harry took the letter before any of his relatives could do anything, opening yet another Ministry letter and starting to read it, hoping for any bit of good news he could get. He felt his uncle shift, moving to stand behind him so that he could read the letter as well.
Dear Mr Potter,
Further to our letter of approximately twenty-two minutes ago, the Ministry of Magic has revised its decision to destroy your wand forthwith. You may retain your wand until your disciplinary hearing on the twelfth of August, at which time an official decision will be taken. Following discussions with the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the Ministry has agreed that the question of your expulsion will also be decided at that time. You should, therefore, consider yourself suspended from school pending further enquiries.
With best wishes,
Yours sincerely,
Mafalda Hopkirk
Improper Use of Magic Office
Ministry of Magic
Harry couldn’t help but exhale in relief. He wasn’t expelled. He was going back to Hogwarts, away from his relatives. He’d see his friends again, yell at them for ignoring him all summer. Everything would be fine.
Sharp pain in his head interrupted his thoughts. His uncle pulled on his hair, walking away from him and forcing him to follow if he didn’t want his hair ripped out. He tried to stop from reacting, barely allowing himself to scrunch his face as his uncle dragged him upstairs.
He was thrown unceremoniously on the floor, landing harshly on his arse and causing a sharp pain to shoot up his spine.
“Just because you’re going back to that place doesn’t mean you won’t pay for what you’ve done, boy!” his uncle advanced on him, hands going to his belt. “I thought they’d finally seen some sense, seen how horrible you are, but I shouldn’t have expected anything from those freaks.”
Uncle Vernon slid the belt out of his jeans, gripping it from the soft end and letting the buckle dangle to the floor.
“Take off your shirt!”
Harry’s brain stopped working for a second, and he stared at his uncle with wide eyes. As unpleasant as his relatives were, they had rarely resorted to physical violence. Sure, he’d been shoved painfully into walls, dragged around by his hair or arm, and he’d had to dodge his aunt’s frying pan a few times, but his uncle using a belt? That was a new development.
Harry spent too much time trying to comprehend what was happening, forgetting about his uncle’s order. He flinched when his uncle’s voice bellowed in the silent room.
“I said, TAKE OFF YOUR SHIRT!”
Uncle Vernon’s purple face reached a new level that Harry hoped never to see again as he hastily removed the clothing from his upper body. Harry tried to stop the rapidly increasing trembling in his body, white knuckles wrapped around the rough material of his old shirt. He silently begged him to stop, to not do what he was planning to, but he wasn’t going to voice his pleas out loud. He hadn’t begged Voldemort for mercy. He wouldn’t do it for his uncle either.
With newfound conviction, he stared down—or well, up—at the man, waiting to see what he would do.
“Turn around,” Uncle Vernon ordered.
When Harry refused, he growled and raised the hand that was holding the belt, making it fly upwards before he brought it down with a sharp flick of his arm. The metal struck the top of his shoulder, sending sparks of pain down his arm. The scarcity of food that he had to suffer through during the summer meant that he had lost weight, and his bones weren’t as protected by fat and muscle as they should be. The pain made Harry’s eyes water, but he bit his lip. He wouldn’t beg, and he wouldn’t cry out either.
His uncle didn’t say anything about his refusal to turn, but he grabbed his now injured arm once again and shoved him with such force that he was now sprawled on the floor, face down. He didn’t waste a moment, and soon, he brought down the belt once again, and this time, he didn’t limit himself to one hit.
His bottom lip was now bleeding from how hard he was biting down on it to stop himself from screaming. He closed his eyes and tried to block the sound of metal hitting his flesh repeatedly and his uncle grunting with the effort it took to move his fat arm.
The silence from his uncle didn’t last long. Soon, the man was telling Harry all about how he was going to hurt this summer, how worthless he was, how he would regret hurting his Dudley in between hits.
Harry tried to drown his voice out, to think about anything but what his uncle was saying. He imagined himself with his friends, studying in the library or playing Exploding Snap in the common room, but he had to shut down that line of thought. Thinking about his friends reminded him of the radio silence from them, and that didn’t help in this situation.
He then imagined himself flying above the Quidditch pitch, racing after the golden snitch and diving, trying to stop Malfoy from reaching the elusive ball before him, and lost himself in the conjured memory. He could faintly hear his uncle’s voice and the pain from the hits, but it was duller and easier to handle when he was mentally doing his favourite activity.
He wasn’t sure how long it had been since his uncle started this new form of torture, but just as his hand closed around the snitch in his daydream, his uncle stopped, letting the metal hit the floor for the first time in what felt like forever.
“You have ten minutes to clean yourself up.” With that, he hauled him up to his feet. He didn’t give him time to get his balance back, legs trembling from the agony in his back that was starting to make itself known and the exhaustion from the day’s events, and he was once again tugged to the bathroom.
His uncle shoved him in there, and Harry gripped the dresser to stop himself from falling to the floor again. His uncle closed the door, leaving him alone but the lack of footsteps told him he was just waiting for him outside the door.
Harry didn’t waste time looking at himself in the mirror. He didn’t want to know how much damage his uncle had done to his back, and he didn’t dare lose any precious time. With the mood he was in, he didn’t want to find out what would happen if Harry wasn’t done in the ten minutes he had given him. Harry thought that his uncle wouldn’t seriously hurt him, but after today, after seeing just how much anger his uncle could hold and let out on his nephew, Harry wasn’t so sure anymore of what his uncle was capable of.
With that thought, he undressed completely, stepped into the shower and turned it on. The water was like ice, but it felt soothing against his inflamed skin. His whole back felt raw and when he looked down to his feet, he saw red running down the drain, and he sighed. He had hoped that his uncle wouldn’t hurt him enough to bleed, but nothing seemed to go right that day. He didn’t have any bandages, and he hoped that his wounds wouldn’t get infected. He would have to find a way to get his hands on some, but a feeling in his gut told him that his evening excursions had come to an end.
He waited until the water ran clear, thankful that it didn’t take that long and then he slathered his body with soap and cleaned his hair with his cousin’s shampoo, wincing as the soap running down his back stung the open lashes on his back.
Five minutes later, he stepped out of the shower, drying himself with a clean towel before putting on the same clothes, as his uncle hadn’t given him time to grab clean ones.
He brushed his teeth and drank some water from the tap, not knowing when he would be allowed to have some water and then left the bathroom. As he had thought, his uncle was waiting for him outside, tapping his foot impatiently on the floor.
“Took your time, freak, did you?” his uncle sneered and gave him a hard shove in the direction of his bedroom. Harry didn’t bother telling him that he had taken less than the ten minutes he was allowed. It would only get him mad, and he didn’t want any more pain. He had had enough for that day. Or ever, but he knew that wishing for no pain at all was futile. His uncle made it abundantly clear that this wouldn’t be his last meeting with the belt.
Vernon pushed Harry into his room and walked towards the windowsill, where Hedwig’s cage was sitting. He took a padlock and locked it, grinning maliciously as he made a show of pocketing the key. “No more sending letters to your freak friends! If I hear any noise coming from the bird or you, I’ll try out my new gun. It’ll make good target practice.”
Harry nodded and watched as his uncle made his way to the door. “And no meals until I say so.”
Harry knew that if it were for him, he wouldn’t get any meals at all. It was his aunt that most of the time got through his uncle during his worst punishments, knowing that it would be hard to explain if he died from starvation, but he had a feeling that his aunt wouldn’t be feeling so charitable this time. Not when her precious Diddykins had been hurt by magic. Harry could only hope that they wouldn’t decide to actually let him die this time or even kill him purposely.
His door slammed closed, and he could hear the sound of his uncle working on the multiple locks on his door that he had installed in the summer of his second year. Harry wished that the Weasley twins and Ron would come rescue him just like they did that summer. He would give anything to see Ron’s face floating outside his window, no matter how angry he might be feeling at his best friend. He would forgive him in a heartbeat if he could get him out of this hellhole or even bring him back in time to twenty-four hours earlier. Hell, he’d go back to that night if he could. He’d take the cup by himself; he wouldn’t care about sharing the glory or whatever he had been thinking then. Cedric would still be alive. He’d fight Pettigrew harder, killing him before he could resurrect Voldemort, and this nightmare would be avoided.
However, it happened. Voldemort was back and Cedric dead and he almost got expelled for using magic to save his bully of a cousin and he got a beating for his troubles. There wasn’t anything he could do about it.
This was going to be the worst summer of his life.
✦✦✦✦✦✦✦
True to his uncle’s word, Harry hadn’t seen any food from his uncle ever since he got locked up in his room a week ago. Harry was only let out—under the strict supervision of his aunt to make sure he wouldn’t try to run off—to go to the bathroom and do his list of chores, which grew impossibly longer as the days went on. He was no longer on meal duty. His uncle and aunt didn’t want him to sneak any food while he cooked, as he often did, and to make up for the loss of that chore, they came up with useless things for him to do, like counting every piece of silverware they had in the house. Aunt Petunia had then screeched about him leaving fingerprints all over her fine silverware and then had ordered his uncle to punish him.
Uncle Vernon didn’t need any encouragement to do so. They found fault in everything he did. A missed weed in the garden, a broken teacup or plate (often broken by Dudley and blamed on Harry), the tiniest speck of dirt on the windows won him a beating, either with the belt or with Uncle Vernon’s fists and feet.
Harry had never been so exhausted in his whole life. He wished the day of the trial would come so that he could get out of the house. He hoped they would bring him to wherever his friends or Sirius—or all of them, as he strongly suspected that they were all together—were staying, but he was reluctant to get his hopes up on the chance that they would just bring him back here.
He had always spent the last few weeks of summer with the Weasleys, but Harry was afraid that they had finally got tired of him. In the week following the Dementor attack, his anger had been partly replaced by fear that he was being abandoned, that his friends didn’t want him anymore. Why else wouldn’t they write to him, even to just chat about random, useless stuff like homework or the latest Chudley Cannons game? Weren’t they worried about what happened? He had hoped that after hearing of the attack—he was sure that they knew about it—they would at least write to him to make sure he was ok, but no owls appeared at Privet Drive.
✦✦✦✦✦✦✦
By the time the eve of the trial arrived, Harry had a newfound hatred of the Dursleys. He didn’t think he’d hate them more than he already did, but the feeling of loathing that engulfed him every time he was in their presence, which was all bloody time. His only respite from his relatives were the nights, but those were dedicated to a completely different type of hell.
His nightmares about Cedric and the graveyard didn’t abate. They still plagued him every time he was too exhausted and in pain to stay awake. He spent the ten days preceding the trial slaving away for the Dursleys and acting as Uncle Vernon’s punching bag during the day and fighting the nightmares during the night.
Harry was currently lying on his stomach on his hard and lumpy bed to avoid agitating the wounds on his back—the belt was still Vernon’s weapon of choice—taking deep breaths and trying to calm down his aching stomach. His aunt had given him some bread for lunch that day, but it didn’t do anything to quell his hunger. He had some food left over from Hogwarts, but the conservation spells were starting to wear off, and he had to make it last until the end of the summer in the chance that he would be stuck here until then. He was already running low.
Harry stole a glance at the clock. It was almost five am. The hearing was at nine, but he wasn’t sure when somebody would be there to pick him up. His uncle and aunt knew about it—his uncle had made sure not to leave bruises on any visible surface of his body—and they’d gone to visit Aunt Marge for the night to avoid seeing any more ‘freaks’.
Harry reluctantly got up from his bed. The lashes on his back pulled with renewed ache, but he had become good at ignoring the pain in the last two weeks. He went around the room, picking up his discarded clothes that he had not had the energy to take care of. While the Dursleys wanted him to keep the rest of the house spotless, they didn’t care about the conditions of his room. After all, they did their best to pretend he didn’t exist, and nobody would ever see his bedroom. Therefore, his room—previously Dudley’s second bedroom where he put his broken toys—was still used as a storage room for the unwanted and worthless stuff: him, Dudley’s old toys and any ugly or broken item that the Dursleys had accumulated over the years. Harry had pushed all the stuff against the wall across his bed, leaving him space for his bed, his desk and a square that was enough space for Vernon to beat him up.
Harry folded his clothes and placed them and the rest of his things on the desk in the eventuality that he would need to pack after all. He didn’t have his trunk as his uncle had locked it into the cupboard, and it was impossible for Harry to get it as his uncle kept him locked in and someone was breathing down his neck every time he wasn’t, but he would ask whoever picked him up to unlock the door for him. He’d make up some excuse as to why his stuff was there.
He chose to wear his school uniform, his black trousers and white button-down shirt, forgoing the outer robe and his tie, which had the Gryffindor colours and were probably inappropriate for court. He knew he had to look his best, especially if they all believed him to be mad like Fred and George told him. However, he couldn’t do much about the state of his shoes. Petunia bought them at a charity shop, as Dudley’s old shoes were way too big for him, and he’d embarrassed them by tripping enough times that they’d given up and bought him the cheapest shoes in his right size they could find. They were old even when Petunia had given them to him a few years ago, but now they were dirty from walking around the grounds at Hogwarts and almost breaking apart from use. He hoped nobody looked at his shoes.
He could imagine the headlines: ‘The Boy-Who-Lived-To-Wear-Ratty Shoes’.
He went to the bathroom and took a shower, letting the cool water run down his back and cool his hot skin. He took his time now that he had nobody to breathe down his neck and put limits on his bathroom time. Uncle Vernon had left the door unlocked, after Harry had managed to reason with him.
How could he explain being stuck in his room when they came to get him? It’d reflect very badly on them and get them in trouble, he told him, and thankfully, after a thorough punishment for speaking up, Vernon had seen sense. They had locked every one of their precious belongings in their bedroom, taking the key with them, but they’d had no choice but to leave him free.
He’d debated getting his trunk out of the cupboard and putting it in his room—he had to learn how to pick a lock if he wanted to survive at the Dursleys and get his school things to do homework—but ultimately decided against it. He was afraid they would see it wasn’t there anymore when they came back, and if he were staying at Privet Drive for the rest of the month, he didn’t want to deal with the punishment that would surely follow.
Just as he finished getting dressed, he heard the doorbell ring downstairs. He took a last look at his reflection. His face looked thinner than ever, his green eyes stood out harshly against his pale face and the dark purple rings around his eyes. His hair was a mess as always, but Professor Lupin had told him in third year that he was cursed with his father’s genetics and therefore his hair would forever be untameable. He checked to make sure no bruise was showing before taking a deep breath, shoved his hand in his trousers’ pocket to wrap it around his wand and got ready to face whoever had come to take him to the Ministry.
He descended the stairs, avoiding the creaky step out of habit even though he wouldn’t wake anyone up if he stepped on it and made his way to the front door. He looked through the peephole, making sure it was actually his escort and not a random stranger and then threw open the door when he saw familiar red hair and less familiar purple hair.
Arthur Weasley stood in front of him, wearing his usual kind smile and next to him stood a witch with a heart-shaped face and short purple hair.
“Wotcher, Harry!”