Aftereffects
The cupboard is dark. The light stopped working a week into him being back in it and the only light he gets is from the crack under the door. His trunk is stuffed inside with him, making it even smaller. It feels like the walls are closing in.
Harry hasn't done much since his godfather's death. He woke up in the hospital wing after the incident, told he didn't have any injuries but had gone into a two day coma. He was told to stay in the hospital wing until the end of the semester, missing his exams and having to be watched constantly. Dumbledore didn't speak to him, didn't even glance his way, but it didn't feel like it was for the same reason as it was the beginning of the year. It felt dangerous. Angered. Like the Headmaster was hiding something under his purple night-sky robes and long, white beard. Behind his twinkling, grandfather eyes. Harry shook away that thought quickly.
When the school year ended, he tried to get to Dumbledore, to beg him to let him stay with the Weasleys or stay at Hogwarts. He never got an answer. So he forced, once again, with his muggle relatives. Unfortunately, the muggle news station had found out about Sirius dying, and thus he had no protection. He was beaten senseless by Vernon for the first week or two of summer, not fed anything but enough to keep him alive and shoved into the cupboard like a suitcase from a bad vacation. He was practically a pretzel.
Now it's midnight. He hasn't eaten all day, hasn't drank anything, hasn't showered, and hasn't used the toilet. He's suffering. From the bruises and welts and open wounds bleeding all across his body to his bodily needs, he fears he might die. Maybe from blood loss, maybe from starvation, maybe from dehydration. Would death be better than this? Would endless darkness be a solution?
No! He can't be hopeless like that. He has friends! He has Remus and…he grits his teeth as Sirius's name comes to his mind. It hurts. Worse than any physical pain ever could. Everything seems to hurt nowadays.
Everything but what should hurt.
Voldemort. He didn't hurt. The warmth of his body, the feeling of his breath and his nails, the taste of the magic that enveloped them. It was powerful. Voldemort felt powerful. His scar pulsed at the thought. Why? Why didn't Voldemort hurt him?
That makes no sense! None of this makes any sense! What the bloody hell is going on!? He should be with Sirius! He should be with Ron and Hermione! Talking to Dumbledore! But he's here and missing VOLDEMORT of all people!? What is wrong with him???
What changed that day? What could it have been? Did Voldemort poison him? Curse him? Is this some twisted joke by Fate herself?
He needs to leave.
He needs to get out. He needs to run to Diagon Alley or The Burrow, just somewhere! How the hell does he get out of here? The door is locked from the outside and it's not exactly like he has any accidental magic to help-
Click.
Or he does. Potter luck.
Harry grabs a hold of his trunk and slowly creaks the little door open, stepping out. The moon is high, basking the living room in the most beautiful blue light he's ever seen. He's always had an admiration for the night, and even now, as busted and broken as he is, that remains the same. Familiarity is comforting.
He takes out his truck, bumping it against the stairs and freezing for just a moment to make sure nobody heard, before shutting and relocking the cupboard to ensure they don't notice he's gone until they open it. Sneaking into the kitchen, he grabs ahold of Petunia's purse, which sits on the counter near the stove. She has a tendency to forget it here when she's bringing in groceries. He picks up on small things like that.
He snatches out her wallet and grabs put as much money as he can see, which amounts to a little over 25 dollars. He might not need it, as he has more than enough money to get by inside his vault, but it'll be good to have just in case he needs to buy something muggle. Can Gringotts turn wizarding money to muggle money? He's headed there anyways, might as well stop by and ask?
He stuffs the money into his pocket, places everything neatly back in order, and ducks. He quickly tip-toes out the kitchen, through the living room, and makes his way out the door, making sure to quietly shut it behind him. Leaving it open would probably get them robbed.
Well. Now what?
He could call the Knight Bus…that's about all he can do, actually. What else IS there to do? It's two am on a Sunday, nobody else is going to pick him up.
Harry stands on the edge of the sidewalk and holds out his thumb, he doesn't know exactly what he's supposed to do, but he assumes this is it. Sure enough, the bus comes speeding forward and he has just enough time to jump out the way, less his hand get squished.
“Blimey! Is you again, innit?”
Stan pops out from the bus, a wide smile on his face. He hasn't aged much, at least not physically, still acne-prone as ever.
“Sure is.”
“We got ‘arry Pottah back on the bus! Get on now mate! Don't just stand there!”
The older boy moves out the way, preparing Harry's ticket as he enters and the doors shut behind him with a steam-like noise.
“Where ya’ headed too?”
“Diagon Alley.”
“You hear that Ern!? Diagon Alley!”
A head dangling from the mirror then shouts, repeating what Stan said in a heavy accent.
“Take it away Ern! Diagon Alley!”
And the bus zooms forward, pushing Harry back slightly. He gains his balance, a hard thing to do on such a rocky vehicle, as he's handed the ticket.
“How much?”
He asks, ready to use muggle money to pay, hoping it'd do.
“Ah! Mate! Your ‘arry Pottah! On the house! On the bus, ‘suppose actually!”
Harry smiles and nods politely. Stan has always been an odd fellow, the boy thinks as he sits down on one of the rickety old beds lining the bus. It seems like he really likes his job, but also doesn't. He can't help but wonder why he picked this job, or did he make the Knight Bus? He seems a little young for that, but it could be.
He shrugs, brushing off the thoughts and turning his head to look through a nearby window. The moon sits lower in the sky now, still ever present but beginning to leave the sky and move elsewhere. It feels like Harry himself. Still ever there but changing. How is he changing, he couldn't tell you. Sometimes you just get that feeling.
Like how some people can tell it's going to rain by the smell of the air, Harry can tell when something big is going to happen, he can feel it deep in his soul. Curling around him like a thorn-filled vine, making its way up his throat.
“We're ‘ere!”
Stan snaps him out of his thoughts. He returns his ticket to the man and waves.
“See you later Stan!”
He exclaims politely, getting a nod in return as he exits the bus. In reality, he hopes he never has to see the Knight Bus again, for as odd Stan is as a person. At least, not in these circumstances. Maybe he will see it again, but never like this. Never running.
He can only hope.
At the moment though, he can't worry about the future. He's sat in front of The Leaky Cauldron now, the Knight Bus nowhere to be found. Deciding it'd be best to get some rest, he opts to go inside and rent a room.
“Excuse me?”
Harry tapped on the bar, getting the owner's attention. Named Tom, the man looks over, scowling as he naturally does.
“Whatcha need?”
He tosses a dirty rag on his shoulder, raising an eyebrow.
“Could I get a room for the night? I have 25 dollars in muggle money, if you'll accept that…?”
He takes out the money, passing it over to be inspected by the worn down man, who looks at it suspiciously.
“Hm. ‘Suppose it'll do. Room 834.”
He passed the younger male a silver key, pocketing the money. Grateful, Harry smiles.
“Thank you sir.”
And he scurries off to his room, not wanting to intrude on the man's work any further. It was a little ways away, but not too long until he unlocked the door and made himself comfortable inside. He'd need new clothes, his robes are all too small for him now and his muggle clothes aren't exactly appropriate for Wizarding things or whatever. It shouldn't be too expensive.
With everything said and done though, his exhaustion begins to set in. His eyelids droop and his muscles feel like they've been picked of all his bones, making him limp and rubber as he stumbles his way over to the bed. It isn't the most comfortable, kind of scratchy and a little annoying, and he still has on dirty clothes since the only thing he took off were his shoes, which he tossed across the room. However, he's too tired to care as he spreads out and allows his eyes to close.
Darkness welcomes him like an old friend once more.