“Here, take Hedwig!”
Harry thrust the cage into George’s outstretched arms (or was it Fred…Who could tell?). Already he could hear Uncle Vernon struggling with the many locks to Harry’s bedroom. Slow as it was, he was making progress and it was only a matter of time before he got through.
He’d managed to pack up his few belongings with the Weasley’s flying car hovering just outside the window all without waking the Dursley’s. It wasn’t until the inevitable moment of ripping the bars off the window did they finally rouse.
Uncle Vernon was the first to reach the door, somewhat surprisingly; Harry supposed his anger must’ve spurred him on despite the considerable force of gravity working against the man.
“Potter!” He’d roared, keys jangling as he crammed them into their respective locks. He was nearly done, by Harry’s estimation, only one or two locks remained.
“C’mon, Harry!” Ron called, reaching around his brother’s seat to hold out a hand.
He climbed up on the windowsill taking one last look around to see if he’d forgotten anything—books, robes, quills and parchment, Hedwig…
“My wand!” He leapt out of the Weasley’s reach and snatched up his wand from where it had rolled under his bed.
“Okay, hurry up now!” George’s unflappable tone was uncharacteristically tense while he eyed the door and his twin gripped the steering wheel.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m ready!”
He clambered back up the windowsill just as Uncle Vernon threw open the door. Nephew and uncle eyed each other, one in fury, one in fear, frozen until Uncle Vernon regained his senses. With a howl he lunged forward, Dudley clinging to a just visible Aunt Petunia in the hallway.
The sudden action kicked Harry back into gear. He tossed his wand safely in the car and dove—but too late, Uncle Vernon had his ankle secured in a large, meaty fist.
“Get off!” George and Ron grabbed his arms and pulled and Harry kicked at his uncle.
“You’re not going anywhere, you and your freaky little friends!” He roared, grabbing Harry’s other ankle with his free hand.
He was gaining momentum. Ron and George’s grip slipped until they were grasping him by just the fingertips. It was an odd, terrifying game of tug-of-war with Harry dangling over fifteen feet of open air. As a Quidditch player, he’d gotten used to heights but it was admittedly different when he didn’t have so much as a broomstick to keep him aloft.
Luckily—of unluckily—he didn’t have to face the fall. Uncle Vernon had him by the back of the shirt by now, and Ron had lost his grip entirely. Now it was a large angry man on solid ground versus a boy in a floating car. All three of the car’s inhabitants were yelling profanities and doing their best to help, and Harry himself kicked and struggled for all he was worth, but it was no good. Uncle Vernon dislodged him from George’s grasp and they toppled back inside the house.
“Harry!” Ron shouted, looking about to jump out of the car.
“Get out of here!” Harry yelled, getting to his feet only to get restrained around the middle by his uncle.
“But—”
“Go!”
Uncle Vernon went for the window and made a mad swipe at the Weasley’s, who were still trying to get to him. Harry intercepted. He pushed his uncle’s great arm out of the way, knocking it aside before it could make contact with any of the others.
“Get out of here you freaks!” Uncle Vernon’s eyes bulged out of his head. “I don’t ever want to see you on this property again or I’m calling the police, you hear me?”
It was getting harder to restrain his uncle—he was nearly three times his size—but he kept at it.
“Just go!” He panted, intercepting another swipe.
“But Harry—!”
“We’ll figure it out, just not now! Go!”
From the driver’s seat, Fred looked at Harry, his enraged, spitting uncle, and the occasional light flickering on from the neighbor’s houses. With a slightly ashamed look about him, he shifted gears and flew off into the night. Harry thought he heard Ron’s screamed protest, but it was muffled when George slammed the car door shut. The car rippled, then vanished from sight.
Harry was so preoccupied with all this that he didn’t notice Uncle Vernon’s attention had shifted.
“And you!” He spat.
Harry found himself being pinned roughly to the wall by a cold purple hand. He was met with a closeup view of Uncle Vernon’s mustache, much closer than he ever would’ve liked, enough to see the crumbs of apple strudel Aunt Petunia had made for dessert. He was breathing hard, fat face jiggling with more rage than he’d ever seen.
“Thought you’d invite some friends over, eh? Them and their little circus trick for the whole world to see?” With every word, his grip tightened around his throat.
“I didn’t invite them,” he managed. “They were only coming to get me.”
“Oh, I see, get you and bring you to that little school of yours?” His grip got even tighter. Harry could hardly breathe now. “I think I’ve about had it with that school of yours. You will not be going back again—ever! You hear me? You’re going to stay here until every last drop of magic is stomped out of you!”
Harry choked, clawed at the hand encumbering his oxygen flow. This only seemed to aggravate him though, and he threw Harry to the floor with a crash.
In all his years at the Dursley’s, he’d never been subject to physical abuse. They told him he was unwanted, ignored him, neglected him, starved him. And yes, he’d gotten the occasional belt or slap, but…
Uncle Vernon had a mad glint in his eye as he kicked the small boy at his feet. Instead of feeling relieved after this outlet, he only felt more fury, more hatred. This boy represented everything wrong with the world. Those who messed with the system, who weren’t satisfied with peace, they only wanted to stir the pot and set themselves up as different. Better. Higher.
Well, it was Vernon’s job to put the boy in his place. So he drove another kick into his ribs, and another into his stomach, and while he had the wind knocked out of him, another in his back.
He kicked and kicked until the boy wasn’t even crying out anymore, just curled up in a ball taking the blows.
Coward.
“Vernon…” his wife’s voice from the door.
The only indication that he heard was by ceasing the attack and bending down to lift the boy roughly to his feet. The green of his irises were mere rings around huge black pupils. His glasses hung crookedly from his nose, which dripped a single drop of blood across his cheek.
“You think you’re so much better than people like us.” Harry felt fingernails dig into his biceps. “Because of your abnormalities, you think you sit on a pedestal! That the rest of us should bow to you! Well let me tell you now, boy, no one is going to bow to you. You need to learn your place!”
At the last word, he threw Harry to the floor. His shoulder caught on the corner of the desk on his way down, whether Uncle Vernon meant for that to happen or not, Harry didn’t know. He fell to the ground hissing in pain and Vernon crouched over him, grabbed his shirt collar, and lifted him a few inches off the ground only to slam him back down again. He banged his head so hard sparks flew in his vision. Another burst of sparks as the motion was repeated, and this time he barely held on to consciousness. Vernon lifted him again but didn’t slam him back down, this time driving his fist into his nose, sending a torrent of blood to accompany the lone drip.
Harry was too dazed to think clearly. Too dazed to do much of anything other than lay there. He felt himself being hoisted to his feet and dragged down the hall, down the stairs, to a familiar looking door.
His voice caught up faster than his brain. “No,” he murmured, pounding uselessly against his uncle’s grip on his wrist.
“Yes,” he mused, wrenching the door open. “I think some time in your old room would do you some good. Remind you of how important you really are.”
Before he could even protest, Harry found himself being thrown into his old cell like a dog on the street.
Mrs. Weasley started the day like any other; dressing quickly, tying her hair up, and beginning the morning chores. Today was laundry day. It felt like every day was laundry day in this house. She went around to each of her children’s rooms in turn, beginning with Percy and the twins. Fred and George were nowhere to be found. Mrs. Weasley sighed but didn’t give it much thought; with their record, it would have been stranger to find them asleep on such a nice, quiet morning like this. No doubt they were already up and about causing mayhem.
“Ron?” She knocked on her youngest son’s door. No answer.
She knocked again, more persistently this time. Still nothing, as she expected—nothing would rouse that boy short of the promise of food or his mother’s wrath.
She went in anyway. But instead of finding a snoring mound of blankets she found an empty bed. Unmade and messy, but definitely empty.
Her pulse jumped in her throat. What could possibly have gotten Ron up so early?
Thus began her mad search. She began, of course, by checking the clock containing not the time but rather her family’s location, each member with their own hand. Ron’s hand was pointed at ‘Travelling.’ More bafflingly, so were Fred and George’s.
“What on earth…?” She wondered aloud in a tone much calmer than she felt. Where were they going? Did something happen? Were they going to a healer? Did someone take them? She didn’t see how they could’ve without her noticing, but the thought did nothing to calm her when so many questions remained unanswered.
Despite knowing for sure her boys weren’t in the house—the one thing she knew with certainty—that didn’t stop her from turning the place inside out searching for them and an clues that might tell her where they might’ve gone.
She didn’t have to look long, though. Mere minutes after the unfortunate discovery, a battered old car rumbled up the drive with three distressed boys inside. She clambered down the house’s many flights of stairs to meet them in the kitchen.
“Where have you been!” She shrieked. “Beds empty! No note! Car gone! You could have died! You could have been seen!”
The rest of her tirade faded when she saw the expressions on their faces. They weren’t suppressing mischievous grins or looking ashamed at being caught. They looked scared.
“What’s happened?” She said, not quite able to disguise the note of impatience in her tone. “Have you been causing trouble?”
“It’s…it’s Harry, mum,” Ron said, white-faced. “We think he’s in trouble.”
The next thing Harry was aware of was the horrible ache in his…well, everything. It was dark in his cupboard, but a sliver of light around the door told him he’d probably passed out for at least a few hours. He was bent awkwardly with an arm pinned under his back and legs splayed akimbo against the walls.
With considerable effort, he pushed himself upright, hating the way he instinctively crouched to avoid cracking his head on the stairs. Looks like he remembered the place better than he thought.
He leaned against the wall and caught his breath. The throbbing in his chest told him at least a couple ribs were bruised, maybe broken. There was something crusted on his face—probably blood if his memory wasn’t playing tricks—and his glasses were nowhere to be found.
He rubbed his eyes groggily, wincing at the pain in his nose. He patted the floor around him, hunting for his glasses, but soon another realization took precedence, one that drove all other thoughts from his mind.
Voices. Coming from the front door.
“How dare you come here! More bloody—” Uncle Vernon cut himself off, unwilling to finish the sentence in case one of the neighbor’s heard.
“We won’t be long, I assure you.” Said a man’s voice Harry had never heard before.
“We’re just here to make sure Harry Potter is alright.” Said a woman.
His heart gave a lurch. One of the voices, the woman’s, sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it.
“There is no Harry Potter here. Good day.”
A male voice followed, sounding considerably younger than the other two. “You’re lying! I remember you from last night, and I know Harry’s here too. Where is he? Is he okay?”
Harry’s head swam. Someone was looking for him? And unless his muddled brain was playing tricks on him, he now knew to whom the voices belonged: the Weasley’s. The woman was Mrs. Weasley, he remembered her from the train station last year. So the man must be Mr. Weasley, which meant…
“Ron!” Harry shouted. Or tried to. He hadn’t realized, but Uncle Vernon’s grip from the night before made quite an impression on his vocal cords and his voice came out no louder than a rasp. He banged on the cupboard door though and that seemed to get his attention.
“Harry!” Ron called and the sound of footsteps followed, stampeding not to the cupboard, but upstairs.
“Stop! You are trespassing on private property!” Uncle Vernon protested, immediately followed by the sound of more footsteps following the first.
Harry heard his name being called out periodically, muffled by layers of floor and ceiling. He did his best to make himself heard. He shouted and banged on the door until his fists hurt.
Quicker than expected, the cupboard door unlocked and burst open, but it wasn’t the Weasley’s that greeted him, it was Uncle Vernon.
“You be quiet!” He hissed and, without warning, aimed a kick at his chin, knocking him to the ground. He nearly bit his own tongue off. As it was, he was overtaken by a spell of dizziness and disorientation. Uncle Vernon stomped down—hard—on Harry’s hand, nearly snapping the thin bones there.
“Stay there and be quiet.” He growled, swinging the door shut again.
Harry tried to snap himself out of it. Already he could hear footsteps above him, no doubt realizing he wasn’t there. Maybe they’d give up and leave, and he’d lose his only chance at escape. Somewhere in his addled mind, he recalled what Uncle Vernon had told him, how he would never be allowed back at Hogwarts.
While he faded in and out of consciousness, the Weasley’s turned the place upside down in their haste. Ron, having some idea where Harry’s room was located from the night before, led the way. He wouldn’t’ve been able to draw up a metal map just by seeing the house’s exterior, but he identified the right room by the overabundance of locks.
“Here, it’s this one!” Ron said. He made to unbolt the handle only to find it was already unbolted. In fact, none of them were locked. That was strange. After last night’s fiasco, one would think they’d keep Harry under even tighter security. Unless…
He swung the door open wide to reveal what he’d been fearing. Harry wasn’t there.
“Harry?” He called anyway. Maybe he was hiding under the bed or something. Ron would hardly blame him after seeing his uncle so enraged last night.
“Are you sure this is his room?” Mrs. Weasley asked tentatively, wishing they were mistaken. The room was bare of any decoration. Only a thin blanket and a flat pillow adorned the bed. No trunk or birdcage were there, obviously, those were safe at the burrow at the moment. The only thing that said this room belonged to the black haired boy was the calendar taped to the wall counting down the days til September 1.
“Yes I’m sure,” Ron said, checking the wardrobe just in case. “I don’t see him though, where is he?”
“Ron?” Mr. Weasley asked, stooping to pick something from the floor. When he stood, he was holding a pair of round glasses. Very familiar glasses.
Ron took them and moved to clean off a smudge—seriously, Ron didn’t think he’d ever seen his friend clean his glasses in his life—but when he went for a closer look…
“Is that blood?”
Mr. Weasley adjusted his own glasses to better examine the evidence in question. He paled as he reached the same conclusion Ron did, and together they stormed down the stairs, back to where Vernon Dursley was waiting.
“I told you to—”
“What is the meaning of this?” Mr. Weasley shook the glasses in the larger man’s face.
Vernon sputtered. “Those…they’re—they’re Dudley’s! Clumsy chap, must’ve dropped them this morning. I’ll just—”
“Oh, I don’t think so!” Mr. Weasley snatched them out of reach.
“Those are Harry’s glasses. I would know. He never takes them off, blind without them.” Ron said.
“Where is he?” Mrs. Weasley asked, quite distressed.
Vernon glowered at the three of them. “Now you listen here, all of you. You are trespassing on private property. I will not hesitate to call the police. I want you all out of here or else I’ll—”
Knock, knock, knock.
Everyone went stock still, including Vernon.
“Harry?” Ron asked haltingly.
Knock, knock.
Ron started down the hall, following the noise.
“Where do you think—!” Vernon’s protests were cut short by Mr. Weasley’s wand now pressed against his throat.
Ron stopped when he got to the cupboard but stared at it doubtfully. It sounded like the sound was coming from there, but a cupboard? Sure, Harry was small, but small enough to fit inside a cupboard?
Knock, knock. Followed by a muffled bout of coughing.
Well, there was no doubt now. The padlock on the door was unfastened, dangling loosely as if someone had tried to lock it in a hurry but hadn’t quite managed it in time. Which, Ron suspected, was exactly what happened.
“Harry! Hold on, I’m coming, hold…” His voice died midsentence.
Someone was certainly there, only it took Ron a moment to place him as his best friend.
The boy in the cupboard had Harry’s black hair, ill-fitting clothes, and thin frame, but nothing else looked like the friend he knew. This boy was hunched in the too-small alcove, not even able to stretch out or stand properly. His face, devoid of gasses, was mottled with dried blood. A bruise crept around the right side of his nose meeting a bloodshot green eye. He was clutching his side with a similarly bruised hand and wheezing painfully, coughing every now and then. Between rounds of coughs, Ron caught a glimpse of his neck, which was ringed in purple splotches about the size of fingerprints. Very large fingerprints.
Anger bubbled through him, but the need to help overpowered it…for now.
“Merlin…” He murmured.
He tried to say something but broke off in a cough, grasping at his throat. He pushed himself up with his good arm and in an instant, Ron was here, looping an arm around his back and guiding him upright. Harry staggered a little but stood with surprising surety given his condition.
“Oh, my—” Mrs. Weasley squeaked, clapping a hand over her mouth, eyes pooling with tears.
As for Mr. Weasley, it took a moment for the shock to wear off, but when it did, he spoke with unflinching authority.
“Right then,” he said, relinquishing his hold on Mr. Dursley and moving to help the boys.
“Harry is coming with us.” He said, not bothering to check with Dursley. He didn’t put up an argument anyway, but whether his silence was inspired by guilt or fear or shame he didn’t know. Nor did he care, so long as they got Harry out of this hellhole.
“He’ll be staying with us for the remainder of the summer, and don’t expect him over the holidays either.” He said as the three of them hobbled sideways out the door, Mrs. Weasley hurrying ahead to open the car door. “We’ll discuss this with Dumbledore, but I can’t imagine he’ll be returning next summer. Or any summer thereafter.”
They’d reached the car. Mrs. Weasley was gently guiding Harry into the car, nudging his head down so he wouldn’t accidentally hit it. He slumped into the seat, casting a grateful look in the woman’s direction.
“Thank you,” he tried to say, but it came out as a wheeze followed by a coughing fit. He kept forgetting about his crushed windpipe.
“There, now, dear,” she patted uselessly at his shirt collar to smooth it—anything to feel remotely helpful. “Nothing to worry about now, we’re just going to bring you home for the rest of the summer, how does that sound? Sound alright?” She added that last bit to spare him the necessity of a verbal response. He nodded his approval, eyelids blinking heavily. He stared blearily ahead. She wondered if he’d remember any of this once they got him patched up. She rather hoped not.
“Arthur?” She called, a hint of urgency in her voice. Just being near this house gave her the chills, even if they had got Harry out. She wanted to get going as soon as possible.
“I’m here,” he said, thundering down the walkway around to the driver’s side. “Ready?”
Without a word, the remaining Weasley’s got into the car and sped off at speeds much higher than the streets typically allowed. But no one bothered them, seeing as they weren’t on the ground long enough to be noticed. A turn off the main streets into the nearest patch of woods and Mr. Weasley activated the invisibility booster and shifted from “Drive” to “Fly.”
Now soaring through the safety of the sky, the Weasley’s allowed themselves a breath of relief. Not Harry though, who was fast asleep, head lolling against the headrest.
Without a word, Ron reached over and fastened his friend’s seatbelt, and in so doing caught another glimpse of his newly bruised and bloodied face. He felt somewhat responsible for what happened—it had been his idea to try and break Harry out, after all.
His mother must’ve sensed his guilt. She reached back and patted Ron’s hand reassuringly with a warm smile. He returned it halfheartedly, then both turned their attention back to the broken boy fast asleep in the back of their flying car.