Chapter 3
The sun had barely risen when Vernon Dursley parked his car in front of the school, the engine grumbling like its owner. He and Petunia walked stiffly beside Harry as they approached the main entrance. Harry kept his gaze fixed on the ground, dreading the upcoming meeting. His mind was still reeling from the day before, from the strange reality he was living in and how everyone around him seemed determined to convince him that magic wasn't real. As they entered the building, the walls felt like they were closing in on him, each step echoing the cold indifference of the world around him.
Inside the headmaster's office, Professor Marchbanks, a stern-looking woman with sharp eyes behind round glasses, greeted them with a nod. She gestured for them to sit, folding her hands on the desk as she regarded them.
"Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, thank you for coming. I've asked to speak with you about Harry's performance in class. He seems… distracted. His grades are slipping, and his teachers are concerned about his focus."
Vernon forced a tight smile, his face reddening slightly. "Yes, well, we've noticed that too, haven't we, Petunia?" Petunia nodded primly beside him; her lips pursed as though she had just tasted something unpleasant.
"We're working on it at home, Professor Marchbanks," Vernon continued, his tone overly genial. "Harry's been having these ridiculous notions—talking about magic and all sorts of nonsense. We've tried to set him straight, but you know how children can be, getting all sorts of silly ideas in their heads."
Professor Marchbanks frowned, clearly unimpressed by Vernon's attempts to downplay the situation. "Mr. Dursley, I'm not interested in dismissing Harry's concerns as nonsense. What I'm interested in is ensuring that Harry receives the support he needs to succeed in his studies. If something is troubling him, we must address it."
Vernon's smile faltered slightly, and he shot a quick glance at Harry, who was staring resolutely at his lap. "Of course, of course. We'll make sure he focuses on his studies. Right, Harry?"
Harry didn't respond; his thoughts were too jumbled to form a coherent answer. He felt Professor Marchbanks' gaze on him and reluctantly looked up.
"Harry," she said gently, "your teachers are concerned. You seem distracted, as though your mind is somewhere else. Is there something you'd like to talk about?"
For a moment, Harry considered telling her everything—the dreams, the memories, the sense that something was wrong with the world around him. But one glance at Vernon's stern face, and Harry knew better. The last thing he needed was to give his uncle another reason to punish him.
"No, Professor," Harry mumbled, forcing the words out. "I'm just tired, I guess."
Professor Marchbanks looked at him for a long moment, her sharp eyes searching his face. Finally, she nodded, though her expression remained sceptical. "Very well. But if you ever need to talk, my door is always open."
Vernon jumped in, eager to bring the meeting to a close. "Thank you, Professor. We'll make sure Harry gets back on track. Won't we, boy?"
Harry nodded silently, feeling the weight of his uncle's words pressing down on him like a vice.
The meeting wrapped up quickly after that. Vernon shook hands with Professor Marchbanks, his grip firm and overbearing as if he were trying to assert control over the situation. Petunia offered a tight-lipped smile, her eyes flicking between Harry and the headmaster as though she couldn't wait to leave.
Vernon's forced politeness evaporated as they returned to the car, his face hardening into a mask of barely restrained fury. He didn't say a word on the drive home, but the tension in the car was suffocating. Harry knew what was coming, and he braced himself for it.
When they arrived back at Privet Drive, Vernon wasted no time. The moment the front door closed behind them, he rounded on Harry, his face contorted with rage.
"What the hell were you thinking, boy?" Vernon bellowed, his voice echoing through the house. "Magic? Dreams? Are you trying to make us look like fools?"
Harry flinched at the volume of Vernon's voice but stood his ground, knowing that anything he said would only make things worse.
"Do you think you're clever? Talking about this magic rubbish? You're nothing but a burden, and I won't have you embarrassing this family with your nonsense!"
Harry felt his anger rising, but he forced himself to stay quiet. He knew better than to talk back when Vernon was like this.
"Answer me, boy!" Vernon demanded, stepping closer, his face inches from Harry's. "You think you're special, don't you? Well, you're not. You're just a freak, just like we've always said."
Harry's silence only seemed to fuel Vernon's rage. With a snarl, Vernon unbuckled his belt, the leather slipping through the loops with a menacing hiss.
"Maybe this will help you remember what's real," Vernon growled, raising the belt above his head.
Harry instinctively stepped back, but there was nowhere to go. The first blow landed on his back with a sharp crack, sending a jolt of pain through his body. He clenched his teeth, refusing to give Vernon the satisfaction of hearing him cry out.
The belt came down repeatedly, each strike more vicious than the last. Harry's vision blurred with tears, but he refused to let them fall. He focused on the memories he had left—of magic, Hogwarts, and friends who cared about him. He held onto those memories like a lifeline, even as the world around him tried to strip them away.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Vernon stopped. He was breathing heavily, the belt still clenched in his fist. "You'll study hard, boy," he spat, his voice dripping with venom. "And you'll forget all this magic nonsense. Do you understand?"
Harry nodded weakly, his back throbbing with pain. He didn't trust himself to speak, knowing that anything he said would only make things worse.
Vernon glared at him for a moment longer before turning on his heel and stomping out of the room, the door slamming shut behind him. Harry was left alone in the silence, his body trembling with the aftershocks of pain.
He sank to the floor, curling up on his side as the tears he had been holding back finally broke free. His mind was a whirlwind of emotions—anger, fear, frustration, and a deep, aching sadness. The world he remembered was slipping further and further away, and he could do nothing to stop it.
But even as he lay there, his back burning and his heart heavy, Harry made a silent vow. He would not give up. Harry would not let this world, this reality, crush him. He would find a way to hold onto the truth he knew, even if no one else believed him.
And somehow, he would find his way back to the life he had lost.
After the punishing encounter with Vernon, Harry struggled to focus on anything besides the pain radiating from his back. But the thought of the upcoming English Language and Literature exam gnawed at him. He knew he couldn't afford to fail—not with his uncle watching his every move, waiting for another excuse to lash out.
That night, Harry lay in bed, trying to will away the throbbing ache that made it difficult to breathe, let alone concentrate. He stared at his textbooks, their pages blurring together in his mind. The subject felt foreign and distant, as if it belonged to someone else's life. He thought of magic, of the familiar comfort of Hogwarts' castle walls, but quickly shook those thoughts away. He couldn't afford to daydream, not now.
Harry lingered near the school library the next day, hoping to catch Hermione before class. When he finally spotted her, she was immersed in a book, as usual. Her brow slightly furrowed as she read, wholly absorbed in whatever she was studying.
"Hermione," Harry called out, his voice a bit rough.
She looked up, startled, before offering him a small smile. "Harry, you look terrible. Didn't get much sleep?"
Harry shook his head, trying to ignore the concern in her voice. "Not really. Look, I need your help. The English exam… I'm not ready. I've been trying to study, but nothing's sticking."
Hermione's expression softened with understanding. She set her book aside and gestured for him to sit down. "Alright, let's go over what you need help with. We don't have much time, but I can walk you through the key points."
Harry sat down across from her, pulling out his notes and textbooks. For the next hour, they pored over the material together. Hermione was patient, guiding him through the complex themes and literary devices that seemed to elude him. Her explanations were clear and concise; for a moment, Harry felt a spark of hope. Maybe he could get through this.
But as the minutes ticked by, Harry's exhaustion began to catch up with him. His mind wandered, the words on the page losing their meaning. Despite Hermione's best efforts, he couldn't shake the impending doom looming over him. He needed this exam to go well—more than anything—but the harder he tried to focus, the more the material slipped through his fingers.
Eventually, the bell rang, signalling the start of the exam period. Hermione gave him an encouraging smile as they packed up their things. "You've got this, Harry. Just remember what we went over, and take your time."
Harry nodded, trying to muster some confidence. "Thanks, Hermione. I'll do my best."
As they walked to the exam hall, Harry's anxiety grew. His heart pounded in his chest, each step heavier than the last. Sitting at his desk, he could barely keep his hands from trembling.
The exam papers were handed out, and Harry stared at the questions, his mind blank. He tried to recall what he and Hermione had reviewed, but the information seemed to have evaporated from his brain. Panic surged within him, tightening his throat.
For a moment, all he could think about was the last time he had felt this helpless—standing in the Forbidden Forest, facing Voldemort, prepared to die. But this was different. It was a test of knowledge, of skills he wasn't sure he possessed. It wasn't life or death, but it felt like it.
He took a deep breath, focusing on the first question. He began to write slowly, his answers coming in fits and starts. Thanks to Hermione's guidance, some parts of the exam felt familiar, but other sections were a blur. He pushed through, hoping against hope that it would be enough.
As the minutes ticked away, Harry could feel the weight of the exam bearing down on him. His back ached from the earlier beating, and his head throbbed from lack of sleep. But he kept going, driven by the need to prove that he wasn't a failure despite what his uncle believed.
When the exam finally ended, Harry felt a strange mix of relief and dread. He wasn't sure how well he had done, but at least it was over. He gathered his things slowly, his body heavy with exhaustion.
Hermione met him at the door, her eyes searching his face. "How did it go?"
Harry shrugged, too tired to give a definitive answer. "I don't know. Some parts were okay, but… I don't know."
Hermione looked at him with sympathy. "You did what you could, Harry. That's all anyone can ask."
Harry nodded, though he didn't feel much comfort from her words. "Yeah, I guess."
As they walked out of the school together, Harry couldn't shake the feeling of failure that clung to him. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't escape the sense that he was losing control of his life—everything that once mattered to him.
But for now, he could only wait and hope that Hermione's help had somehow been enough to turn the tide in his favour.
The late afternoon sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, casting a warm, golden glow over the school courtyard as students started to filter out, heading home or to various after-school activities. Harry lingered behind, exhausted from the day and the weight of the exam still pressing on his mind.
He spotted Ron standing by the school gates, animatedly recounting the day's events to his older brothers—Charlie, Bill, and the twins, Fred and George. They all dressed in casual Muggle clothes, blending in effortlessly despite their distinct Weasley traits.
"The exam was brutal," Ron groaned, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "I mean, who even cares about half the stuff they asked? Like we'll ever need to know that in real life!"
Fred smirked, nudging George. “Told you, Ronnikins. School's just one big joke."
"Yeah," George chimed in, grinning. "Why study when you've got us to teach you all the important things in life?"
Ron rolled his eyes, clearly used to his brothers' teasing. "Very funny, you two. But seriously, it was tough. Even Hermione was struggling, and you know how he's usually pretty good at this."
Charlie, listening quietly, turned his gaze towards the school building just as Harry emerged. His eyes narrowed slightly in concern when he saw how Harry was moving—stiffly, as if every step caused him pain.
Bill, standing beside Charlie, noticed as well. "Harry doesn't look too good," he remarked, his voice low enough that only Charlie heard.
The twins, however, were oblivious to their older brothers' observations. When Harry approached, Fred and George greeted him with their usual exuberance.
"Harry!" Fred called out, slapping Harry's back with a hearty pat.
"Good to see you survived the exam!" George added, giving Harry a similar slap on the other shoulder.
Harry winced, biting back a sharp gasp of pain as the blows landed squarely on the bruises Vernon's belt had left on his back. He quickly masked his discomfort, forcing a weak smile. "Yeah, just barely."
But Charlie and Bill didn't miss the way Harry flinched, nor the quick flash of pain that crossed his face before he managed to hide it. Their expressions darkened, and they exchanged a worried glance.
"Something's not right," Charlie murmured under his breath, his eyes following Harry closely.
Bill nodded in agreement, his concern growing. "He's hurting. But he's not saying anything."
Ron, catching the tail end of their conversation, frowned. "Harry's been off for a while now. It's like he's dealing with something, but he won't talk about it. We tried to get him some help, but… well, you saw how that went."
The group fell silent, tension settling over them as they watched Harry struggle to maintain his usual composure. They had an unspoken understanding that something was wrong, but none knew exactly what it was. The twins, sensing the shift in mood, also quieted down, their earlier cheerfulness fading into concern.
Charlie took a step closer to Harry, his voice gentle but firm. "Harry, are you alright? You don't look too good."
Harry hesitated, feeling the weight of their concerned gazes on him. He wanted to tell them everything—the nightmare that his life had become, the pain he endured at the Dursleys, the confusion that plagued his every waking moment. But the words stuck in his throat, choked by the fear that things would only worsen if he spoke them aloud.
"I'm fine," Harry lied, forcing a small smile. "Just tired from the exam, that's all."
Charlie didn't look convinced, but he didn't push further. Instead, he nodded, though his eyes remained sharp, watching Harry closely. "Alright. But if you ever need to talk, you know we're here, right?"
Bill stepped forward, placing a reassuring hand on Harry's shoulder—carefully avoiding the area where he had seen Harry wince. "Charlie's right, Harry. We're here for you, no matter what."
Harry nodded, grateful for their support but afraid to reveal the truth. "Thanks, guys. I appreciate it."
The conversation shifted as they began to walk towards the car, with Ron resuming his rant about the exam's unfairness and the twins chiming in with their usual banter. But the worry that hung in the air between Charlie and Bill didn't dissipate.
As they piled into the car, Charlie took the driver's seat, and Bill leaned closer to his brother. "We need to keep an eye on him. Something's not right, and I don't think it's just school stress."
Charlie nodded, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. "Agreed. The Dursleys… there's something off about them. Harry's too scared to talk, but we must figure out what's happening."
Bill glanced back at Harry, who was staring out the window, lost in thought. "We will. Whatever it is, we'll get to the bottom of it. Harry's been through enough already."
As the car pulled away from the school, the quiet conversation faded into the background, but unease lingered. For Charlie and Bill, the mystery of Harry's pain needed solving—and soon. They couldn't shake the feeling that whatever was happening to Harry at the Dursleys' was far worse than any of them had imagined.
The following week passed in a blur of nervous anticipation. Harry trudged through each day with a knot of anxiety tightening in his stomach, dreading the moment the exam results would be revealed. He hadn't forgotten the sting of the belt on his back, the reminder of what failure would mean in the Dursley household. Despite Hermione's help, he couldn't shake the fear that his efforts hadn't been enough.
When the day finally arrived, the school was abuzz with the usual chatter and nervous energy that accompanied the announcement of exam results. Harry sat at his desk, staring at the clock as the minutes dragged by, his mind racing with worst-case scenarios.
The teacher, a stern woman with greying hair and sharp eyes, began distributing the results. As she placed the sheet on Harry's desk, he hesitated, his heart pounding. He could feel the weight of his future pressing down on him as he slowly turned the paper over.
His eyes scanned the marks for English Language and Literature first. To his surprise, he had done better than expected. He got a B+ in English Language and a solid B in Literature. The relief that washed over him was almost overwhelming, and he allowed himself to breathe for a moment. All the late-night cramming with Hermione had paid off after all.
Harry's gaze flicked to the bottom of the page as the other students compared their results, whispering excitedly or groaning in disappointment. There, staring back at him, was his History grade. D+. His heart sank.
History had never been his strong suit, even at Hogwarts, and the Muggle curriculum was a new challenge he wasn't prepared for. The intricacies of dates, names, and events muddled in his mind and showed in his abysmal grade.
Still, he clung to the slight victory of his English results, hoping it might soften the blow when he returned home. But as the final bell rang, signalling the end of the school day, Harry's nerves began to unravel. He knew he couldn't keep the results to himself—Vernon would demand to see them, and there was no hiding the fact that he had failed to meet expectations in History.
The walk home felt like a march to the gallows. Harry's footsteps were heavy, his mind racing with thoughts of Vernon's reaction. He had barely stepped through the front door of Number Four, Privet Drive, when Petunia appeared in the hallway, her eyes narrowing as she took in his pale face and tense posture.
"Well?" she demanded, her voice sharp. "How did you do?"
Harry wordlessly handed over the results sheet, watching Petunia's eyes scan the page. Her eyebrows rose in shock as she saw the B+ and B for English. For a moment, she seemed almost impressed. "Well, this is… unexpected," she muttered, more to herself than to Harry.
Hearing the commotion, Vernon lumbered into the room, his heavy footsteps echoing in the small hallway. He took the sheet from Petunia's hands, his small, piggy eyes narrowing as he read through the grades. For a fleeting second, Harry thought he saw a flicker of something like approval on his uncle's face. Vernon's mouth twitched as though he might smile.
But then Vernon's gaze landed on the D+ in History, and whatever brief glimmer of approval existed was instantly snuffed out. His expression darkened, his lips pressing into a thin, furious line.
"What is this?" Vernon barked, his voice dangerously low. He jabbed a thick finger at the offending grade. "A D+? You call this acceptable?"
Harry flinched at the volume of his uncle's voice, his relief from earlier evaporating like mist in the sun. "I—I tried my best," he stammered, his voice small and uncertain. "History's just… it's hard."
"Hard?" Vernon thundered, his face turning an alarming shade of purple. "You think life isn't hard, boy? Do you think you can get by on excuses? You're lucky you even have a roof over your head, and this is how you repay us?"
Petunia stood off to the side, her expression unreadable as she watched the scene unfold. But she didn't intervene—she never did. Harry felt his throat tighten, a mixture of fear and frustration bubbling up inside him. He had tried so hard, but it was never enough. Not for Vernon. Not for anyone.
Vernon's hand clenched the results sheet, crumpling it slightly in his fist. "You'd better shape up, boy," he growled, his voice low and threatening. "I won't tolerate this kind of failure under my roof. You've embarrassed this family enough with your nonsense. Get out of my sight."
Harry didn't need to be told twice. He turned on his heel and bolted up the stairs, the anger and disappointment radiating from Vernon like a physical force. As Harry reached his tiny bedroom, he slammed the door shut behind him, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The familiar ache in his back flared up as he sank onto his bed, burying his face in his hands.
The mixed emotions of the day crashed over him—relief at the decent marks, shame for the one that wasn't, and the endless frustration of trying to live up to impossible expectations in a world that made no sense. But as he sat there, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was fundamentally wrong. Not just with the Dursleys, not just with school, but with everything.
Somewhere, in the back of his mind, the memories of another life tugged at him—memories of magic, of a world where he belonged, where he was more than just a burden. But those memories felt like a dream slipping further and further away.
At that moment, Harry made a decision. He couldn't keep pretending that this life was all there was. Harry would find a way to understand what had happened to him and why the world had shifted beneath his feet. And he would start by talking to the only person who seemed to believe him—Charlie Weasley.