Keep on keeping on

Hermione watched Harry intently the entire train ride back. Whilst physically, Harry may not have been there, sat quietly in the corner, emotionally, mentally, he wasn’t there at all. Hermione had tried to get Harry to talk. Draco had tried to talk to Harry. But every time either of them go close, Harry either flinched away and shut down or walked away entirely, leaving both of his friends very confused. She understood that what they, what he, went through down beneath the school was traumatic and scary but she couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t talk to them about it. Now sat in total silence, the train trundled along the tracks, the luscious Scottish hills steadily fading into nothingness as they left the countryside behind.

“Harry?” Hermione whispered, trying to engage again. Harry turned his head, pulling his eyes away from what went by outside. Hermione held back a sob as she saw his face. His skin was pale, and his face was haunted, eyes sunken and ringed by dark circles. He hummed in response. Hermione breathed a small sigh of relief at the first sign of interaction in months. Draco’s head snapped up from his book as he listened to what Harry may be about the say.

“I know you’re not okay so I’m not about to ask if you are. But I want you to know that we are both here for you. When you are ready to talk, we will listen.”

Harry nodded, hearing his friend’s voice waver with emotion.

“T-Thank you.” He murmured. Hermione’s eyes were soft and pitying and that only made Harry’s stomach turn, reminding him that he did not deserve her pity.

“I-I’m sorry Snape couldn’t find you somewhere else for the summer.” Hermione went on uncertainly. She wasn’t sure how to approach that subject. She knew how badly he was treated, and it was in no way fair that he was being forced back there. Harry just shrugged.

“I-It’s okay. I-I’ve survived t-there this long. W-What’s one m-more summer.” Harry resigned.

“But you shouldn’t have to survive!” Draco insisted. Harry shrugged again.

“D-Dumbledore said V-Voldemort tried to k-kill me that night. T-That’s twice he’s tried t-to kill me now. I-I think I’m g-going to spend my life s-surviving.”

When the train arrived, Harry dragged his feet reluctantly onto the platform, hauling his trunk behind him.

“Harry!” Hermione called after him as he walked away. “I’ll come running if you need me. All you must do is write.” Harry nodded but he didn’t tell her that he had no way of contacting anyone. No owl, no phone and Harry very much doubted that the Dursley’s would let him post a letter the muggle way.

After finding the Dursley’s waiting by their car and being pushed into it, all cries about not being touched ignored, Harry was silent the entire ride back to Privet Drive. Once back, Harry was roughly shoved through the door, hearing it slam shut behind him.

“Can’t say we are pleased to have you back here. A lot less freakiness around when you weren’t here.” Uncle Vernon spat. Harry flinched and stepped away until he felt his back hit the wall. Whilst Harry hated being forced back into that house, he was determined not to lose his voice again. They would not take that away from him again.

“Y-Yes Uncle Vernon.” Harry nodded politely.

“Although. I must say. The house has become very dirty without you here to clean it. Put your stuff away and then get straight to cleaning. After you have cleaned the living room and the hallway you will make dinner. Then, you will clean the rest of the house. You may not sleep until that is done.” Vernon instructed, his eyes alight with rage and venom.

“Yes U-Uncle Vernon.” Harry nodded again. The small boy began to walk over to his cupboard.

“NOT THERE!” His uncle bellowed, his voice shaking the pictures that hung on the walls. Harry flinched again. “Upstairs. Spare room. Clean it yourself. Don’t want your lot sniffing around here again.” When Harry stayed rooted to the spot, convinced that this was a trick, Vernon backhanded the boy so hard that Harry tumbled to the floor, clutching his red and stinging cheek. “MOVE!”

Harry nodded, scrambled to his feet and ran up the stairs.

The room was not big, but it was larger than his cupboard. Piles of Dudley’s broken toys were stacked high in every corner of the room. A small, rickety bed frame sat against one wall, a singular thin blanket lay on top. Regardless of the condition, Harry felt happiness. He had a bed that wasn’t a mattress on the floor. He had a door that didn’t lock from the outside. He had a window through which he could watch the street and the people that walked along it. It wasn’t much, nowhere near what he had at Hogwarts, but it was more than he’d ever been given in this house, and he wasn’t about the lose it. So, ignoring the tidying that needed to be done in his bedroom, Harry set about cleaning the rest of the house.

3 hours later, Harry had dusted, polished, hoovered, cleaned and tidied the living room and the kitchen. Next, Harry started on dinner. He decided that pasta bolognese was easy enough so half an hour later, the large pan on the stove was full of steaming mince and tomatoes. His relatives had taken their seats at the table 10 minutes ago and Vernon had been shouting at him ever since.

“Hurry up boy.” His voice said again.

“Yes, Uncle Vernon.” Harry called out. He’d perfected the art of carrying three plates when he was 7 so he easily brought the food to the table. Once served, Harry waited patiently in the corner. He’d half expected his uncle to tell him to join them, after all they had already given him a bedroom so maybe they would feed him now as well.

“Is there any more?” Vernon asked rudely, not even looking at Harry. Harry nodded, his excitement growing. “Bring it here. Now.” Harry walked back over to the stove and brought the pan back to the table. Rather than dishing up a fourth portion, Vernon scooped the remaining food onto his and Dudley’s plate. Harry excitement disappeared. Vernon saw Harry’s face fall and he smirked at the boy.

“What? You thought you would get some?” Harry dropped his gaze and stared at his feet. “How many times do we have to tell you – freaks don’t get food. Now leave and finish your chores.” Harry scurried away, his stomach growling and his head pounding.

The next few weeks followed the same pattern. Harry woke up, did his chores, fed the people he lived with and went to bed. Rinse and repeat. And Harry was growing more and more exhausted as the days went by. The days got warmer, and Harry’s began to involve tending to the garden. He spent hours every day, hunched over in the flower beds, his hands and knees getting caked in earth. Every time he stepped into the house, Aunt Petunia’s shrill voice would cry out about him trudging mud into the house.

“Filthy animal!” She would cry, wringing her hands anxiously. Harry would sigh, remove his shoes at the door and step onto the newspaper that his aunt had placed down. Harry watched as his skin became tanned but at the same time, his weight dropped away, and Harry saw his bones, once again, push against his skin.

Once warm July evening, Harry had been able to escape the house. His aunt and uncle had decided to go out for the evening and Dudley was no doubt galivanting about the neighbourhood, terrorising animals and small children with his band of bully’s. Harry watched as the amber glow of the streetlights came on. The boy sunk his fists deeper into his pockets and walked aimlessly around, not taking note of where he was going or where he was going to end up. So far, his summer had been hell, and a small part of Harry couldn’t wait to return to Hogwarts. Yes, the memories were mainly horrible. Returning the place where he became a murderer. Returning to the place where he was too afraid to be around his friends for fear of hurting them. But he was also returning to the place where, for a short time, he had felt safe. A place where the adults didn’t beat him or hit him or shout at him. He hated his uncle. He hated his aunt. He hated his cousin.

“I hate this…” Harry mumbled to himself, kicking a stone on the ground. Harry sighed and continued down the road.

“Freak. Oi! Freak!” Dudley’s voice rang out. Harry groaned but did not turn around, determined to just walk away.

“I’m talking to you. Are you deaf as well as useless?” Dudley’s gang cackled and clapped their leader on his meaty shoulder.

“N-No Dudders. J-Just don’t have time for your pig-headed b-bullshit.” Harry called back, still not looking at his cousin.

“D-Did i-it t-take you a l-long time to come u-u-up with that?” Dudley shouted, mocking the stutter that still laced Harry’s voice. Harry spun on his heel and faced his cousin. Harry was fed up and it was about time he stood up for himself.

“Fuck off Dudley!” Harry spat. Suddenly, Harry found himself on the ground, his face stinging. It took him a second to realise that Dudley had swung for him and landed a heavy blow to the side of Harry’s face.

“Like f-father like son, I see.” Harry sneered, pushing himself up to standing. His hands were scraped and bleeding, but Harry wiped them on his jeans and made to walk away again.

“Oh no. You don’t get off that easily. No one talks to me like that.” Dudley reached out and wrapped a bruising hand around Harry’s thin arm.

“Get off me!” Harry protested, pulling his arm away. Dudley pushed Harry backwards and he felt Dudley’s friends grab him, squeezing his arms tight, keeping him in place. Harry felt Dudley’s fist collide with his stomach and he groaned in pain, coughing violently as he tasted blood. His cousin’s fist just kept coming. Face, stomach, shoulder, chest, face again. Harry could feel the blood dripping down his face and a bruise forming around his eye. Everything hurt. Then, Harry felt the grip on him release and he crumpled to the floor, curled into a tight ball.

“You’re pathetic. A pathetic, worthless freak who is worthy of nothing.” Dudley hissed. Harry felt a ball of spit land on his head and then he heard Dudley and his gang stumble away, laughing viciously and loudly. Harry sobbed into himself and stayed lying on the floor, feeling the summer evening heat envelop him.

Eventually, Harry made it back to the house. He’d staggered through the streets, tears dried onto his cheeks, mixed with blood. When he stepped inside, all lights were off. No one cared that he wasn’t home. No one cared that he was essentially missing. Harry wasn’t surprised. Instead, Harry clambered up the stairs, groaning at every move that jostled his bruised ribs. He wondered if they were broken because every breath, he took hurt, sending ripples of pain through his body. Harry found his way to his bed and rolled onto his back, staring up at the dark ceiling and once again, tears rolled down his cheeks. Everything attacked Harry’s mind. Everything that happened. Everything that has been said.

Worthless

Freak.

Pathetic.

Crumbling.

Murderer.

Murderer.

MURDERER.

The word reverberated loudly, and Harry couldn’t handle it. He didn’t know how to handle it and, quite frankly, he didn’t want to handle it anymore. What was the point. He was worthless. He was a freak. He was pathetic. Here Harry was, crying over how he was being treated. He had never known anything different so who was he to complain. He could have died that night. He could have died when his parents died. If he had, none of this would have happened. Harry wouldn’t be a freak. He wouldn’t be pathetic. He wouldn’t be a murderer. Harry slammed his head against his wall until he saw stars. A headache was blooming behind his eyes. Harry swiped at anything he could reach, sending his belongings crashing loudly to the floor. His sobs were heavy, his breaths coming in short rasping gasps. Harry’s chest felt tight, and his blood was rushing loudly in his ears. In the moment of anger, Harry had smashed his bedside light on the floor and the lightbulb had shattered, covering the floor with small pieces of glass. Harry grabbed blindly at the glass and held it tight in his shaking hands.

“I can’t do this!” Harry sobbed. Harry dragged the piece of glass across his arm, his breath catching when he saw his blood well up in the cut and drip down his arm. Small flecks of red littered his carpet. He did it again. And again. And again. Until the pain abated and relief flooded him. Harry leant back against his bed, his breath evening out. The thoughts were still there. They still kept coming and before long, the pressure and anxiety and despair built up again.

You should be dead. The voice was loud and overwhelming, breaking through everything else in Harry’s head. You should have died that night. No one wants you. Everyone would be happier without you.

Harry raised the glass shard that was still in his grip. He put it to his arm again but this time, he pushed the sharp glass into his wrist and dragged it up, hard and deep. Harry felt the pain. He heard the gasp he let out. He saw his vision swim and then there was nothing. Black.

“Idiot child. Freaky, idiot child.” A sharp voice broke through. Harry’s vision was still blurry as he opened his eyes sluggishly. He tried to focus on something, but it was hard. There was bright light on above his head and Harry felt his headache return. The small boy let out a groan of pain and he felt sharp nails dig into his arm. Harry turned his head and saw a thin, blurry figure leaning over him. Aunt Petunia. She was crouched over Harry’s prone figure. His vision started to clear, and everything came into sharp focus again. He watched as his aunt attacked his bleeding arm with a needle. Harry focused on that new pain. He felt sharp pinpricks and then a dull ache as something was dragged through his broken skin. Thread. Harry nearly vomited. His aunt was sewing him up with a needle and thread. Rather than admit what he had done, rather than call for help, his aunt was sewing him up. It was a feeling he would never be able to get rid of. Harry’s stomach rolled and twisted cruelly. He felt shaky and weak. He felt all the blood drain from his face. Eventually, his aunt stood up and looked at her shaking hands. They were stained red and Harry saw the pool of blood around him. Harry rolled over and vomited now, his stomach finally betraying him. Aunt Petunia looked at Harry with cruel, unforgiving eyes.

“This will never happen again. Do you hear me. We will not talk about it again. You will get up tomorrow and do your chores. This-” his aunt waved her hands dismissively at Harry “-will never happen again.” With that, the tall women walked from the bedroom and slammed the door behind her, leaving Harry alone in a puddle of blood and vomit.