Chapter 3
The wound on Harry’s shoulder takes a long time to heal.
His fever peaks and then breaks within a few days, leaving him tired and shaky, his memory of those days pretty fuzzy. He thinks he remembers Mrs Figg clucking at him, laying cool towels on his forehead and telling Aunt Petunia to give him medicine in an uncharacteristically stern tone. As for the wound, he checks the bandages every few days, but for the first week, the bite marks still bleed freely. He doesn’t want to risk asking Aunt Petunia for more bandages, so he cleans up the blood with the stained towel he’d stowed into his cupboard and tries to make the bandages last as long as he can.
The school nurse once told him off-hand that it’s important to keep wounds sterile, and to change any dressings frequently to avoid infections. She’d helped him after he got stitches in his leg, since the Dursleys never took him to any checkups with the doctor, and he hadn’t known how to care for the injury. He thinks about her now and wonders how he’ll treat an infection if he gets one from his shoulder.
Animals carry germs, don’t they? Aren’t people supposed to get special shots when they’ve been bitten by wild animals? Harry hopes he doesn’t need one. He’s never gotten sick from infections before—he doesn’t really get sick in general. Hopefully, his luck will stay true for this, too.
In the second week, the swelling starts to go down and the bite mark starts to close. It’s still sore and angry, but nowhere near the agony it had been that first day. Harry tentatively pokes at it, trying to judge if he can give up the dressings. They’re starting to get gross, probably worse for the wound than just leaving them off would be.
Harry thinks dejectedly that the bite will definitely scar, and nastily.
It takes over his whole skinny shoulder, curving up from his collarbone. The wolf could have easily gone for his neck, making a killing blow, but instead, it missed by inches. It feels deliberate, almost, although Harry knows that can’t be right. For whatever reason, the wolf missed his jugular, and he ought to just be grateful.
Maybe the scar won’t be so bad. In a few years, when remembering it doesn’t put his heart in his throat, when he doesn’t wake up with a jolt thinking he’ll find the beast standing over him again, maybe he’ll even think it’s cool. Like the one on his forehead.
Besides, being attacked by a wolf sounds like an interesting story to tell people.
Mrs Figg had seemed suitably taken aback by the story, anyway. She’d seemed genuinely worried, too, and kept asking him questions, which was gratifying. Harry hadn’t really expected her to believe him at all. She’d even given him something to put on it, liquid in a little glass bottle without a label. It had taken a lot of the sting away and made the bleeding slow down to almost nothing, letting the wound finally start to heal. He kept using it all that first week until it ran out.
Harry’s relatives are significantly less accommodating.
Once Dudley found out about the injury, he immediately started using it to his advantage. He slams into Harry’s shoulder when they pass on the stairs, shoves it when he moves around the kitchen, and makes a point of targeting Harry’s right arm when he and Piers finally catch up to him in school.
Harry’s chore list is longer and harder than ever, with tasks that are more difficult to complete with a bad arm than his regular chores are. Uncle Vernon seems to take pleasure in this, since he sneers nastily every day when he gives Harry the list, always with an unnecessary reminder that he hates whingers.
Harry deals with it all. He’s used to the unfairness of his relatives, after all, and complaining about it will only make it worse. All he can do is wait for his shoulder to heal and try to get back to normal.
With his shoulder finally healing and Halloween approaching—handily distracting Dudley from further Harry Hunting in the excitement—things start to look up. Despite the rough start, maybe October won’t be so bad after all.
*
“Ah, wonderful!” Mr Alden exclaims when Harry returns the book on giants. “How did you find it?”
“I liked it,” Harry tells him, though truthfully, he’s been finding it hard to focus lately, and doesn’t really remember much. He doesn’t like to say that, though, just in case Mr Alden thinks he’s ungrateful and stops recommending him books. Harry likes reading, when he can do so without worrying Dudley will rip the pages, and he likes that Mr Alden likes to talk to him about the books he reads.
There are no biscuits from Mrs Alden today, but Harry has a cheese sandwich from home, made under Aunt Petunia’s watchful eye with the last of the stale (but not yet mouldy) bread. She’s been allowing him more food lately, since the fever, but it’s an unspoken thing neither of them dares acknowledge.
“Ms Mason has been warning the staff about you again,” Mr Alden says. “Said you’d been skiving, lying about being ill. Told me I should check you aren’t vandalising the books I give you.”
“I wouldn’t,” Harry says, indignant. “Really!”
Mr Alden waves him off. “Oh, I know. You’re a good lad, and I told her as much. Don’t know why she has such a sore spot about you, though. You wouldn’t have any idea?”
Privately, Harry thinks that Ms Mason has never really liked him. Maybe because the Dursleys always warn teachers about him at the start of term, maybe because he’s one of the only non-white kids in class, or maybe just because of the state of his clothes, she’s always singled him out. She didn’t get really bad until that time with her hair last year, which she never forgave him for. He doesn’t even know what happened. One minute she was asking if it was true that he stole Dudley’s homework, and the next minute her hair was the same offensive blue as her pointy nails.
She accused him of slipping dye into her hat somehow, even though there hadn’t been any evidence—and he knows there hadn’t been, because he hadn’t done it. But he couldn’t tell her that, and she didn’t give him a chance anyway. She had to go to the hairdressers to have it fixed, and when the bill came in the mail, Uncle Vernon turned a deep puce in sheer rage.
Harry doesn’t think he’s forgiven her, either.
Sullen, he prods at his sandwich.
“Ms Mason also says you haven’t been turning in your worksheets,” Mr Alden continues eventually, peering at him over the top of his glasses. He’s an older man with wispy white hair and thick silver glasses that make him look a bit like a bug, with wrinkles that crease his face when he smiles. He has a very friendly smile. “I did remind her you’ve been ill, but she wasn’t convinced.”
Harry shrugs. All of his worksheets are currently in shreds at the bottom of the rubbish at Privet Drive.
Mr Alden hums. “You’re a smart boy, Potter,” he says, mildly reproving. “I know Ms Mason doesn’t always treat you fairly, and I’ve had words with her about it, much use as it’s done. But just remember, she won’t always be your teacher. Don’t let her, or that cousin of yours, ruin your education. Despite how it might feel, you won’t always be stuck here.”
Surprised, Harry looks up. Mr Alden is watching him knowingly, and Harry flushes. He’s never told anyone how badly he wants to leave Privet Drive—leave Surrey entirely, maybe, travel to all sorts of new and strange places. Anywhere, really, so long as it’s far from the Dursleys. But maybe Mr Alden’s noticed how much he loves the adventure stories he recommends, heroes travelling to far off lands and different worlds, leaving everything behind.
“Er, yes, sir,” he says finally. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Good,” Mr Alden says, turning back to his ham and swiss. “Now, you’ll be needing another book. Do you have anything in mind?”
Harry is about to say no and just ask for whatever is next on Mr Alden’s recommended list (it’s an actual list, too, written down on nice stationery in Ms Mason’s neat handwriting and everything, Harry’s Reading List, tacked up behind the library counter), but catches himself at the last second. He’s been trying not to dwell on it, but—
“Actually, do you have anything on wolves?”
*
One of their classmates invites everyone to a Halloween party.
Well, almost everyone. Bethany earnestly tells Ms Mason that Harry’s invitation must have gotten lost somewhere, or maybe he tore it up when no one was looking. In reality, Bethany knows better than to include Harry in anything, lest she incurs Dudley’s wrath, and she knows Ms Mason is bitter enough not to question it.
Harry doesn’t mind, anyway. It means Dudley will be out of the house for an evening, and Harry might even be able to find some sweets for himself if he plays his cards right—and his cousin won’t even be around to steal them.
Aunt Petunia tuts disapprovingly when Dudley tells her that the party’s actually on Halloween (“Audrey Powell, honestly, letting her daughter throw a party in the middle of the week, no regard for our Dudley’s education…”) but Uncle Vernon thumps him on the back and loudly tells him to show the other kids who’s boss, so that settles the matter.
Uncle Vernon snidely asks if Harry is going to the same party. Dudley smugly shares that he wasn’t invited. The Dursleys all share a good laugh over it during breakfast, while Harry grits his teeth and focuses on his eggs.
“Vernon’s having some people from work over for dinner that night,” Aunt Petunia sniffs later that same day as Harry is doing the dishes. “You know what we expect of you.”
“Make no noise and pretend I don’t exist,” Harry mutters angrily to the soap suds clinging to his fingers. “I know.”
“None of your cheek,” Aunt Petunia snipes.
*
In the days leading up to Halloween, Harry starts feeling strange. He’s tired, mostly. No matter how much he sleeps, he keeps waking up just as exhausted as he’d been when he went to bed, and it’s wreaking havoc on his concentration and his chores. He’s worried the fever’s returning.
He’s slow around the house, distracted and uncoordinated, and he finds the sound of Dudley’s voice, chattering on and on about Bethany and candy and what costumes he likes, even more grating than usual. Harry finds himself having to bite back sarcastic remarks more and more often, and he almost slips more than once in front of Aunt Petunia, which would land him in a heap of trouble he can’t afford. He tries to bite his tongue and push past it, but nothing helps.
The irritation keeps getting worse. His sleep is fitful and interspersed with unsettling dreams, and he’s restless, frustrated by his chores and by his relatives. He’s also annoyed with himself because he knows how to put his head down and ignore things, but he just can’t. He feels hot and prickly at night, sweat beading his forehead even as the rest of his body shivers.
That’s all to say that when Halloween comes around, Harry’s in a terrible mood, and his relatives are breathing down his neck to ensure he doesn’t put a toe out of line. It’s a recipe for disaster and he can see it from a mile away, but he can’t do anything about it.
Dudley’s off to the party as soon as school lets out, whilst Aunt Petunia recruits Harry’s help in preparing dinner for Vernon’s guests.
Harry’s been feeling ill all day, tired and shaky, and Aunt Petunia snaps at him every time he takes too long to follow a direction. He’s sore all over, like he slept funny, or like he’s overworked every one of his muscles, and his right arm especially feels weak, aching something fierce.
His fingers fumble with the cutlery as he sets the table, and he isn’t fast enough to dodge the ladle swung his way when he almost drops Aunt Petunia’s pineapple upside-down cake. Thankfully, she chases him off after that.
He’s miserable and feeling sorry for himself in his cupboard when the guests arrive. He can hear his aunt simpering and his uncle boasting, and he feels such a visceral flare of disgust for them that he has to bury his face in his pillow.
He concludes that he must be sick.
His first thought is that maybe his shoulder got infected after all, but he dismisses that quickly, because the bite’s mostly healed now, leaving angry scars where his skin knitted back together. This must just be his first cold, or flu, or whatever it is kids pick up at schools this time of year. He’s seen Dudley beg off classes with all manner of illnesses before, and Aunt Petunia’s always fretting about the ‘cesspool of germs’ from other kids at school.
If this is how Dudley felt all those times he got sick, Harry suddenly has slightly more sympathy for how much more of a brat his cousin was during those times. Only slightly, though, because Dudley’s a nightmare at the peak of health anyway, and Harry knows that some of those flus were faked.
Still, Harry’s feeling pretty nightmarish himself right about now.
He tosses and turns on his mattress, trying to find a comfortable position, but there isn’t one. Everything aches. He’s sweating through his tent-sized clothes and feels disgusting. He’s exhausted and restless and nauseous. He’s also terribly hungry and thirsty.
It seems to hit him all at once, the thirst and hunger. His mouth is dry, his throat is painful, and his stomach keeps cramping painfully. He doesn’t know how he didn’t notice it before, when he was in the kitchen and had the chance to do something about it. Getting water or sneaking food is all he can think about; anything to stop even a fraction of his misery.
It’s just a glass of water, he thinks crossly. Aunt Petunia shouldn’t get mad at him for that. He’ll take it from the tap and he’ll be quick and quiet about it, so the guests won’t even notice. It’ll be tricky, since the dining room is right next to the kitchen, but Harry’s good at being ignored, and he knows how to sneak around. How to pretend he doesn’t exist.
Normally, he would never break the rules when company’s over. Uncle Vernon has always made it very clear that he won’t like what happens if he messes that up, and Harry’s never been tempted to try it.
But he’s desperate.
If it were Dudley that was sick, Aunt Petunia would be falling over herself to get him anything he needed—but Harry isn’t Dudley. His relatives are more likely to lock him away, completely out of sight, for the entire duration of his cold, and that isn’t fair.
“—a born leader,” Uncle Vernon says proudly from the dining room. His booming voice covers the sounds of Harry’s soft footsteps nicely. “Knows his mind, that boy, and never lets anyone tell him different.”
“A credit to your parenting, I’m sure,” a woman says politely.
Harry slips a glass out from the cabinet without incident. Now he just has to fill it from the tap as quietly and as quickly as he can while his aunt and uncle are suitably distracted by their schmoozing. He wonders how anyone could possibly find Uncle Vernon charming.
Restrained, dinner-party laughter floats over from the dining room.
The glass is almost full. Harry reaches out to turn off the tap—
“Oh, who’s this?”
Harry spins around, spilling water over the counter. An unfamiliar woman is hovering in between the kitchen and the dining room, purse in hand. She looks a bit like Aunt Petunia, with similar blonde hair and snootily upturned nose, but older, maybe. She smiles at him awkwardly, looking like it pains her.
“You must be this Dudley we’ve heard so much about,” she says, though she eyes him doubtfully.
Harry inches backwards, hoping to slip away to his cupboard. “No,” he says. “Sorry, wrong house.”
“Claire!” Aunt Petunia says shrilly, appearing behind the woman. “Terribly sorry, dear, this is, ah, our nephew. My sister’s son, an orphan. We took him in some years ago…”
“You never mentioned,” Claire says suspiciously, looking from Harry to Petunia. Admittedly, there is little family resemblance. Harry has always stood out amongst the Dursleys, with his brown skin and the hair Aunt Petunia tuts over, and Claire isn’t the first to do a double take. It’s always annoyed him and embarrassed Petunia.
Aunt Petunia is visibly flustered, caught between glaring at Harry and smiling reassuringly at her dinner guest. “No?” she says distractedly. “I’m sure we must have… Vernon will have said… We try to keep him busy, you know. He doesn’t do well with people… they upset him…” Behind her back, Aunt Petunia gestures violently for Harry to make himself scarce.
Harry ignores her.
“That’s right,” he says instead, overcome with anger. He has no idea what he’s doing. His whole body feels like it’s on fire and his shoulder is screaming at him. “People do upset me. Stupid people who don’t know when they’re being scammed. Did you know Grunnings has dropped out of the last two deals Uncle Vernon’s made? I suspect poor management.”
The thing about the Dursleys is that they’re very quick to order Harry back to his cupboard, seemingly forgetting that he can hear just about everything that goes on around the house from there, gossip included, if only he cares enough to listen.
“OUT!” Uncle Vernon cries from the dining room. “GET OUT! I warned you, boy—”
Before his uncle can get any ideas about lumbering to his feet and following through on his threats, Harry darts out of the kitchen, leaving behind Claire’s scandalized face and Aunt Petunia’s harried apologies.
At least he manages to keep hold of his glass, and there’s still some water left in it when he reaches the safety of his cupboard. His thirst is drowned out by the hammering of his heart and the hysterical panic squeezing his chest.
He can’t say he’s terribly surprised when, sometime later, after he hears the fast footsteps of Claire and her husband marching out of the house, someone locks the door of his cupboard from the outside.
“You’ll be lucky if I let you out by Christmas,” Uncle Vernon hisses through the slats. He seems to be too angry to say anything else.
True to his word, Harry is still locked in the cupboard two days later. He hasn’t even been allowed out for school.
He’s going stir crazy, cramped and restless in a space he’s fast outgrowing. Aunt Petunia lets him out twice a day for the loo, but she keeps him on a tight leash and doesn’t let him wander. Dudley periodically stops outside the cupboard to taunt him and smash his fist against the door.
Harry is definitely sick. Friday finds him weak and in pain, joints protesting every movement. His throat is parched, not satisfied by the hasty handfuls he gulps from the bathroom tap, and anything he does get to drink is immediately sweated out. All he can do is huddle on his mattress and hope his relatives ease up and let him out soon, if only so he can tackle some chores and work out his restlessness, hopefully earn enough food to stop the ache in his belly.
Maybe when he gets his bathroom break in the morning, he’ll ransack the medicine cabinet and see if he can sneak any of Dudley’s cold medication.
He just has to get through the night first.