Ophidian

Ophidian

(adj. relating to or denoting snakes.)

A Harry Potter & Percy Jackson Crossover

Part 5 of the Amalgamation Series

by Tannin & Tele

Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling and Rick Riordan, voiding that of original content and characters.

. . .

Warnings: Chapter includes child abuse, child neglect and graphic descriptions of violence.

The opinions expressed by characters may not reflect that of the author's.

Author's Note: Please enjoy this next installment in the Amalgamation Series! I want to thank all my faithful supporters thus far, and I hope that you'll continue reading and commenting as the story evolves. 

For this chapter, however, there is a scene describing graphic child abuse at the very end of the chapter. If such violence disturbs or triggers you, feel free to skip over any scenes following the dropped pudding. While I certainly don't condone child abuse, this scene is pertinent to the plot, and I hope I don't trigger too many people. 

Chapter One

. . .

July 31st, 1992

Number Four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, England 

Not for the first time, an argument had broken out over breakfast at number four, Privet Drive. Uncle Vernon had, once again, been woken in the early hours of the morning by a loud, hooting noise from Harry’s room. At the time, Vernon had merely rolled over, grumbling, while Harry peeked nervously out of his little tent of blankets to shush the white-feathered owl. 

Harry rarely got enough sleep as it was, he certainly didn't need Vernon crashing into his room to smack him around. 

“Third time this week!” Vernon roared across the table, hands shaking as he brandished a fork threateningly. “If you can’t control that owl, it’ll have to go!”

Harry tried in vain to explain. “Please, Uncle,” he pleaded. “She’s not used to be locked up. If I could just let her out at night —”

“Do I look stupid?” Vernon snapped out, a bit of fried egg dangling from his bushy mustache rather defeating his message. “I know what’ll happen if that owl’s let out.”

He exchanged dark looks with Petunia, whose face was pinched with consternation. 

Harry bit his lip, wanting to vouch for his beloved pet. However, a loud belch from the Dursleys’ son, Dudley, effectively distracted the two adults. “I want more bacon,” the portly boy demanded, licking the grease from his fingers. 

“There’s more in the frying pan, sweetums - boy, pass over the pan.” Petunia told Harry sternly before turning misty eyes on her massive son. “We must build you up while we’ve got the chance; I don’t like the sound of that school food!”

“Nonsense, Petunia! I never went hungry when I was at Smeltings,” Vernon ensured heartily. “Dudley gets enough, don’t you, son?”

Dudley, who was so large his bottom drooped over either side of the kitchen chair, grinned and turned to Harry, who subtly slipped a slice of bacon into his napkin. 

"Mum!" Dudley gasped, pointing a sausage-sized finger. "Freak's stealing food!"  

Harry flinched at the wretched childhood nickname, berating himself fiercely for his lack of discretion. Hogwarts has made me lax, he thought bitterly. 

The effect of this simple sentence on the rest of the family was incredible: Vernon pulled out of his chair, a thick vein throbbing in his temple. “After all we have done for you, you ungrateful, wretched snot!” thundered his uncle, spraying spit over the table. "Stealing food off our tables, practically taking the clothes off Dudley's back - "

Harry, eyes wide, quickly replaced the piece of bacon, lifting his hands placatingly. "All right, all right, I'm sorry!" 

While Petunia glowered at her nephew, Vernon reluctantly sat back down, smoothing back his wisps of graying hair. Dudley was looking smug, stuffing eggs into his greasy gob. Just as Vernon was about to speak, a sharp caw came from upstairs, where Harry had foolishly left the door open. 

Harry flinched again as his Uncle rose to his feet, but Petunia, thankfully, came to Harry's rescue. 

"I daresay we've had enough drama this morning," Aunt Petunia sniffed, waving at Vernon to sit down. "Boy, get to your cupb - " Petunia faltered. "Room. Go to your room, and shut that owl up. But in half an hour, I want you on your hands and knees in the garden - or else. Understand?" she leveled Harry with a sharp look.

Harry nodded swiftly and bolted away. Stepping into the hall, out of his relative's line of sight, Harry leaned against the wall in stark relief.

“Now, as we all know, today is a very important day," he heard Vernon speaking, tone immensely smoother. “This could well be the day I make the biggest deal of my career,” Vernon said proudly, and Harry rolled his eyes, pushing off the wall.

As he passed his old Cupboard, Harry ached for his school trunk and textbooks which were tightly locked within. 

All Harry’s spell-books, his wand, robes, cauldron and his Invisibility Cloak had been locked in a cupboard under the stairs by his Uncle Vernon, not moments Harry had come home. What did the Dursleys care if Harry struggled with his dyslexia when he he got to school, because he wasn't able to practice writing with a quill or reading his strangely-worded textbooks? What was it to the Dursleys if Harry went back to school without any of his homework done?

The Dursleys were what wizards called Muggles - and thank (the) god(s) for that, imagine Petunia or Dudley as a witch and wizard! - but as far as they were concerned, having a wizard in the family was a matter of deepest shame. 

To Harry, however, being a wizard was the one thing that made life worth living for. He missed Hogwarts so much it physically hurt; he missed the castle, with its secret passageways and ghosts, his classes, the mail arriving by owl, eating banquets in the Great Hall, sleeping in his four-poster bed in the dungeon dormitory with Draco and Blaise snoring beside him, visiting the creature-obsessed gamekeeper, Hagrid, in his cabin next to the Forbidden Forest in the grounds, and - most especially- his friends. 

The one thing he hadn't missed was the near-death experiences; those, Harry could've done without. To be honest, Harry was just happy he'd made it to age twelve without loosing any limbs, although he'd certainly come close a few times with the troll, Hagrid's pet Cerberus, Fluffy, and his deranged ex-professor going after him like Harry was a particularly tasty morsel. 

However glad he was to have survived another year, the Dursleys clearly didn't find his twelfth birthday it worth mentioning -  never mind the fact Dudley received thirty-some gifts and a trip to the cinema not a month earlier. Of course, Harry's hopes hadn't been high . . . but he would've at least appreciated a letter or two from his first ever friends. 

No cards, no presents, and he would be spending the evening pretending not to exist. 

Happy birthday to me, Harry thought morosely. 

More than anything else at Hogwarts, Harry missed his best friends, Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. They, however, didn’t seem to be missing him at all. Not one of them had written to him all summer, even though both Draco and Ron had been adamant in having Harry stay with them. 

Countless times, Harry had been on the point of lock-picking Hedwig's cage and sending her off with a letter, but it wasn’t worth the risk of Vernon finding out. He'd beat Harry until he was bloody, 'and that was a promise!' 

Although Vernon and Petunia had been Harry's greatest fears for the longest time (and the boy knew that Vernon could very well go through with his threat of 'beating the magic out of him' any day), Harry couldn't help but feel numbly unimpressed with their presence.  

At the very end of last term, Harry had come face-to-face with none other than Lord Voldemort himself. Voldemort might be a ruin of his former self, but he was still terrifying, still cunning, still determined to regain power. Harry had slipped through Voldemort’s clutches for a second time, but it had been a narrow escape - and even now, weeks later, Harry kept waking in the night, drenched in cold sweat, wondering where Voldemort was now, remembering his livid face, and his wide, mad eyes . . . 

Harry halted suddenly, thinking he saw a flash of green eyes peeking at him from outside the front window. Harry blinked and the eyes disappeared, leaving only the slightest puff of breath against the window pane. Jerking out of his reverie as Dudley belched from the dining room, Harry quickly tiptoed up the steps and into his bedroom.

After the first letter's arrival last summer, Vernon had ever so graciously given his nephew permission to reside in Dudley's toy room.  The Dursleys' house on Privet Drive had four bedrooms: one for Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, one for visitors (usually Uncle Vernon's sister, Marge), one where Dudley slept, and one where Dudley had kept all his crap.

Nearly everything in his room was broken, from the cracked alarm clock Harry set to awaken him at sunrise in order make breakfast, to the large birdcage that Hedwig was now trapped in. Behind the small bed which was covered with a fleece blanket Harry kipped from the attic, were shelves full of books - the only things in the room that looked as though they'd never been touched. Harry read them constantly, terrified of Professor Snape's expression if Harry fell out of practice. 

It wasn't much, but it was enough. 

Harry crossed the small space, whispering a greeting to his sickly-looking snowy owl.

In his paranoia, Uncle Vernon had even padlocked Harry’s owl, Hedwig, inside her cage to prevent her from carrying messages to anyone in the wizarding world. And Hedwig being unable to hunt, Harry was forced to feed her scraps from his own menial meals. 

"Here, girl," he told her, pulling out a scavenged piece of meat. Harry was just lucky his relatives weren't much observant, as he'd already stolen three small pieces of bacon by the time Dudley had noticed. As Hedwig gratefully nipped at the food, slipped through the bars in her cage, Harry's relative's voices began traveling up the stairs. 

“I think we should run through the schedule one more time,” Uncle Vernon announced imperiously. “We should all be in position at eight o’clock. Petunia, you will be — ?”

“In the lounge,” Petunia said, voice simpering. “Awaiting to welcome them graciously to our home.”

“Good, good. And Dudley?” 

“I’ll be waiting to open the door," Dudley said after a moment, his mouth no doubt full of his third helping. “May I take your coats, Mr. and Mrs. Mason?” 

“Oh, they’ll just love him!” cried Aunt Petunia rapturously, and Harry smiled, imagining his aunt painfully pinching Dudley's cheeks red. 

"And where will I be?" Harry said under his breath, his smile slipping quickly as he collapsed into the rickety desk chair. "I’ll be in my bedroom, making no noise and pretending I’m not there." After years of practice, Harry was quite good at that. 

Harry placed his head in his hands, defeat shining through his clear green eyes. 

. . .

It was half past seven in the evening when at last, after hours of spreading mulch and pulling weeds, Harry heard Aunt Petunia calling out for him.

“Get in here! And walk on the newspaper!” Harry moved gladly into the shade of the gleaming kitchen, running a hand through sweating bangs. Petunia grimaced upon glimpsing his pink-tinged scar, but merely gestured to the two slices of bread and a lump of cheese on the counter.

"Eat quickly! The Masons will be here soon!” she snapped, smoothing down her salmon-pink cocktail dress. As she turned to smooth the adjust the vase of daisies, Harry smirked at the light green stain on her sleeve, likely from the pudding. 

He decided not to mention it.

Harry washed his hands and choked down his pitiful supper, saving the crust for later. The moment he had finished, Aunt Petunia whisked away his plate.

“Upstairs! Hurry!"  

As he passed the door to the living room, Harry caught a glimpse of Uncle Vernon and Dudley in bow ties and dinner jackets. He had only just reached the upstairs landing when the doorbell rang and Uncle Vernon’s furious face appeared at the foot of the stairs. “Remember, boy; one sound -” he shook a beefy finger at him.

Grimacing, Harry crossed to his bedroom on tiptoe and turned to collapse on his bed.

The trouble was, there was already someone sitting on it. 

Harry froze in place, staring into the bulging green eyes of the . . . creature. It sat on the edge of the bed, dangling bony limbs with gnarly, long toenails. The creature had large, bat-like ears and a grin fit for a Weasley twin. 

The boy knew instantly that this was what had been watching him through the front window that morning. Thinking quickly, Harry edged towards the part of his room cluttered with broken toys and reached out to grab the broken end of an old baseball bat.

“May I take your coats, Mr. and Mrs. Mason?” Harry heard from the hall. 

Just before Harry grabbed the bat handle, the creature slipped off the bed and bowed so low that the end of its long, thin nose touched the carpet. Harry noticed that it was wearing what looked like an old pillowcase, with rips for arm and leg-holes . . . goodness, even Dudley's cast-offs were better than that. 

“Um. Hello?” Harry greeted weakly, eyeing the creature up and down.

“Harry Potter!” it exclaimed a high-pitched voice Harry was sure would carry down the stairs. “So long has Dobby wanted to meet you, sir . . . s -such an honor it is, truly!"

“Th-thank you?” Harry responded dubiously. He dropped the bat and edged along the wall toward his desk chair, wishing that Hedwig was awake. Although, she'd probably screech out and disturb his relatives, so - 

“So - Dobby, did you say?” Harry asked, eyes narrowing. 

“Yes, sir. Just Dobby. Dobby the house-elf,” Dobby said humbly.

“Oh.” Harry said dumbly. “Um, Dobby? Pardon me - I don’t want to be rude or anything - but, really, this isn’t a great time for me to have a house-elf in my bedroom.”

The elf hung his head, ears drooping like a dog's.

“Not that I’m not pleased to meet you,” Harry revised quickly, “But is there any particular reason you’re here?" And now of all times?

“Oh, yes, sir,” Dobby said earnestly, hopping from foot to foot. “Dobby has come to tell you, sir - it is difficult, sir . . . Dobby wonders where to begin. . .”

“Why don't you sit down?” Harry offered, gesturing to the bed. To his horror, the elf burst into tears - and very noisy tears, too. Harry stared at him in horror.

“S-sit down!” the elf wailed. “Never, never ever . . .” Harry thought he heard the voices downstairs falter.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered quickly, “I didn’t mean to offend you - ”

“Offend Dobby! Dobby has never been asked to sit down by a wizard - like . . . like an equal,” The desperation in his rheumy eyes made Harry pause. Sympathy swelling in his chest, Harry tried to look comforting. 

"You can't have met many decent wizards, then."

At last Dobby managed to control himself, and sat with his great eyes fixed on Harry in an expression of watery adoration. "Harry Potter is right," the elf whispered, before stiffening. Suddenly, Dobby leapt up started banging his head furiously on the window, shouting, “Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby!”

“Don’t - what on Earth are you doing?” Harry hissed, springing up and pulling Dobby back onto the bed.

Hedwig had woken up with a particularly loud screech, her wings beating wildly against the bars of her cage.

"Stop, stop, please," Harry whispered to her, desperately pulling out the bread crust from his pocket. After pressing them through the bars, Hedwig eyed them warily, but quieted down. "Now what was that about?" he demanded of Dobby. 

“Dobby had to punish himself, sir,” Dobby said, swaying slightly. “Dobby almost spoke ill of his family, sir,”

“Your family?”

“The wizard family Dobby serves, sir. Dobby is a house-elf; bound to serve one house and one family forever.”

“Do they know you’re here?” Harry asked curiously, thanking (the) god(s) that Vernon hadn't come pounding up the stairs. Yet. 

Dobby shuddered. “Oh, no, sir, no ! Dobby will have to punish himself most grievously for coming to see you, sir. Dobby will have to shut his ears in the oven door for this. If they ever knew, sir —”

“But won’t they notice if you shut your ears in the oven door?” Harry asked weakly, feeling a bit ill.

“Dobby doubts it, sir. Dobby is always having to punish himself for something, sir. They lets Dobby get on with it, sir. Sometimes they reminds me to do extra punishments. . .”

“But why don’t you leave? E- escape?” As he said it, Harry realized the hypocrisy of that statement, looking around bitterly at his own metaphorical prison. 

“A house-elf must be set free, sir. And the family will never set Dobby free; Dobby will serve the family until he dies, sir.”

Harry stared at him. “Merlin," he whispered. "I can't imagine what that would be like serving for an eternity. . ." Harry faltered. "Well, actually, I can. It's one of my worse nightmares, being stuck here forever. But - can't someone help you? I know it won't be much, but can't I do something?" 

Almost at once, Harry wished he hadn’t spoken. Dobby dissolved again into wails of gratitude.

“Please,” Harry whispered frantically, “Please, Dobby, you need to be quiet. My relatives are Muggles, and they won't appreciate all this noise. If the Dursleys hear anything - if they know you’re here - they'll kill me!”

Ignoring this plea, Dobby sobbed hard. “Harry Potter asks if he can help Dobby! Dobby has heard of your greatness, sir, but of your goodness, Dobby never knew. . . ”

Harry, who was feeling distinctly hot in the face, said, “Whatever you’ve heard about my so-called 'greatness' is a load of rubbish. I’m not even top of my year at Hogwarts, I'm a bloody idiot. Draco and Hermione are much - " Harry stopped quickly, because thinking about his friends was painful.

“Dra . . . Young Master Draco?" Dobby said suddenly, his orb-like eyes aglow. "Young Master Draco has told Dobby much about Harry Potter's triumph over He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named! Young Master told me that the valiant, bold Harry Potter met the Dark Lord for a second time, just weeks ago - and that Harry Potter escaped yet again!”

"Draco? He's your master? The Malfoys treat you like that?!" Harry hissed, standing suddenly with righteous anger.  

Dobby clapped his hands over his mouth and 'eeped' in shame. 

"Dobby should've have told Harry Potter of his Masters!" Dobby wailed. "No, no, Harry Potter must not think badly of Young Master Draco. Young Master is a good boy, Dobby has raised Young Master since he was just a wee bairn! Dobby knows that Harry Potter has braved many dangers, with his good friend Draco at his side! Draco is a strong, smart boy! A good wizard!" Dobby reminded him, and Harry slowly sat down, shame pooling in his stomach.  

"But Dobby has come to protect Harry Potter, to warn him - even if he does have to shut his ears in the oven door later. Harry Potter must not go back to Hogwarts.”

There was a silence broken only by the chink of knives and forks from downstairs and the distant rumble of Uncle Vernon’s voice.

“W-what?” Harry stammered, startled out of his shock. “But I’ve got to go back! You don't understand what it's like here! Well, maybe you have an idea, but knowing that term starts on September first is all that keeps me going."

“No, no, no,” squeaked Dobby, shaking his head so hard his ears flapped. “Harry Potter must stay where he is safe."

"But I . . . I'm not safe here!" he cried out, frantically tearing at his shirt. "Look, look, please - I get punished for being different, too, and I'm afraid, Dobby! I can't stay here!" 

Dobby stared wide-eyed at the whip marks on Harry's back, the blood dried and scaly while scars of past beatings standing out against deathly pale skin and protruding ribs. "Harry Potter - is being hurt? By Muggles?" the elf faltered, voice weak. "No, no, he is too great, too good, to lose! But if Harry Potter goes back to Hogwarts, he will be in mortal danger - ”

“Mortal danger?" Harry croaked out, replacing his shirt with shaking hands. He'd thought Dobby would understand, that Dobby would - well. Harry didn't know what the elf could do for him, when Dobby couldn't even help himself. "Been there, done that - but what's happening this year?" 

“There is a plot, Harry Potter," Dobby said seriously. "A plot to make most terrible things happen at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this year. Dobby has known it for months, sir. Harry Potter must not put himself in peril. He is too important, sir!” 

"I . . . wait, this hasn't got anything to do with Voldemort, does it?" 

Dobby squeaked, covering his ears. Harry bit his lip. 

"Sorry. Can you just nod or shake your head if you know?" 

Slowly, Dobby shook his head. “Not . . .  not He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, sir -” But Dobby’s eyes were wide and he seemed to be trying to give Harry a hint.

Harry, however, was completely lost. "An agent of him, then?” Dobby tilted his head indecisively, and Harry puffed out a frustrated breath. 

“Well then, I can’t think who else would have a chance of making horrible things happen at Hogwarts,” Harry threw his hands in the air. “Is it another plot of Dumbledore? You know who Dumbledore is, don’t you?” Dobby bowed his head.

“Albus Dumbledore is the greatest headmaster Hogwarts has ever had. Dobby knows it, sir." Harry scoffed quietly. "Dobby has heard Dumbledore’s powers rival those of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named at the height of his strength. But, sir,” Dobby’s voice dropped to an urgent whisper. “There are powers even Dumbledore doesn’t . . . powers no d -decent wizard . . .”

And before Harry could stop him, Dobby bounded off the bed, seized Harry’s desk lamp, and started beating himself around the head with earsplitting yelps.

A sudden silence fell downstairs. Two seconds later Harry, heart thudding madly, heard Uncle Vernon coming into the hall, calling, “Dudley must have left his television on again, the little tyke!”

Scrambling to his feet, Harry grabbed Dobby as gently as he could and pushed him into the closet. The boy flung himself towards Dudley's broken toys and slammed one - some sort of game system - against the ground so it broke in several peaces. It let out a few weak tones, just as Vernon flung open the door. 

“What the devil are you doing?” Uncle Vernon forced out through gritted teeth, his face horribly close to Harry’s. “You’ve just ruined the punch line of my Japanese golfer joke!"

Harry gestured toward the shattered toy. "Sorry, one of the old toys went off. Must be faulty," he whispered, keeping his gaze steady. 

Vernon's mustache quivered as he debated whether to believe him or not. "Fine," the man spat, stomping toward the door. "But one more sound and you’ll wish you’d never been born, boy!” 

After waiting a few moments, Harry let Dobby out of the closet. "And he'll go through with his threats, too - just for making a noise!" Harry informed the creature. “See why I’ve got to go back to Hogwarts? It’s the only place I can be happy. No authoritarians bent on beating me bloody, three full meals a day, friends that actually like me . . .  well, I think I’ve got friends.”

“Friends who don’t even write to Harry Potter?” Dobby said slyly, twisting his hands.

Harry's brows furrowed in suspicion. “How do you know my friends haven’t been writing to me?”

Dobby shuffled his feet. “Harry Potter mustn’t be angry with Dobby. Dobby did it for the best . . . ”

“Have you been stopping my letters?” Harry breathed, tears of disbelief flooding his eyes. They wrote to him. They remembered him!

“Dobby has them here, sir,” the elf said. Stepping nimbly out of Harry’s reach, he pulled a thick wad of envelopes from the inside of the pillowcase he was wearing. Harry could make out Hermione’s neat writing, Ron’s untidy scrawl and a silver wax seal imprinted with a sharp'M'. 

Dobby blinked anxiously up at Harry. “Dobby had to beat himself severely for stealing from Young Master, but Dobby hoped that if Harry Potter thought his friends had forgotten him, Harry Potter might not want to go back to school, sir. ” 

Harry breathed in tightly, hands quivering at his sides. "Give me my letters," he said lowly, dangerously.

“Harry Potter will have them, sir, if he gives Dobby his word that he will not return to Hogwarts. Ah, sir, this is a danger you must not face! Worse than the mean, red-faced Muggles, even! Say you won’t go back, sir!”

Seeing Dobby inch towards the door, Harry spoke desperately. "Yes, yes, alright! Just give me the letters, Dobby, and I'll stay . . . safe," 

Growing up in a house of Slytherins, Dobby was quite accustomed to wizards trying to weasel out of agreements. Young Master did it often enough when it was supposed to be bath time. Dobby's expression was solemn as he spoke. "Dobby wants to trust Harry Potter, but Dobby must take assurances." 

Before Harry could move, Dobby had darted to the bedroom door, pulled it open, and sprinted down the stairs. Mouth dry, stomach lurching, Harry sprang after him, trying not to make a sound. He jumped the last six steps, landing catlike on the hall carpet. 

From the dining room he heard Uncle Vernon saying, “ - tell Petunia that very funny story about those American plumbers, Mr. Mason. She’s been dying to hear it.”

Harry slid into the kitchen and felt his stomach disappear. Aunt Petunia’s masterpiece of a pudding, the mountain of cream and sugared violets, was floating up near the ceiling. On top of a cupboard in the corner crouched Dobby.

“No,” croaked Harry. “Please, Dobby . . . they’ll murder me.”

“Harry Potter must promise he will not go back to school!”

Harry couldn't think past the fear overriding his preservation tendencies. “Dobby, please . . .”

“Say it, sir.”

“I -" the boy faltered, and Dobby gave him a tragic look.

“Then Dobby must do it, sir, for Harry Potter’s own good.”

The pudding fell to the floor with a heart-stopping crash. Cream splattered the windows and walls as the dish shattered. Harry jerked back as shards of china pierced into his leg, a bloody gash dripping crimson onto the marred white floor tile. 

With a crack like a whip, Dobby vanished, eyes displaying deep regret but not a sign of remorse. 

There were screams from the dining room and Uncle Vernon burst into the kitchen to find Harry, rigid with shock, covered from head to foot in Aunt Petunia’s pudding. At first, it looked as though Uncle Vernon would manage to gloss the whole thing over.

“Just our nephew — very disturbed — meeting strangers upsets him, so we kept him upstairs. . .”

He shooed the shocked Masons back into the dining room, promised Harry he would flay him to within an inch of his life when the Masons had left, and handed him a mop. Aunt Petunia dug some ice cream out of the freezer and Harry, still shaking, started scrubbing the kitchen clean. He didn't bother trying to explain the mistake away, he knew that neither his aunt or uncle would listen.  

Meanwhile, in the living room, Uncle Vernon might still have been able to make his deal - if it hadn’t been for the owl.

. . . 

Mrs. Mason's screams still ringing in Harry's ears, the boy clutched the warning letter in his hands, green eyes suspiciously wet. 

Vernon was bearing down on Harry like a great bulldog, all his teeth bared. “Well, I’ve got news for you, boy, I’m locking you up! You’re never going back to that school, never! And if you try and magic yourself out — they’ll expel you!” 

Looks like Dobby got what he wished, Harry thought to himself bitterly as Vernon dragged him up the stairs.

Tossing his nephew onto the ground, Vernon spat at him, eyes wild. "I think it's about time for another lesson, Freak," he declared, walking Harry into a corner. 

An incoming fist caused Harry to duck desperately. Vernon sneered at the boy's aversion tactics, grabbing Harry by the shoulder and shoving him down. "I've had about enough of you," the man seethed, a vein pulsing on his forehead. "Let's see your precious magic protect you from this!" 

Harry gasped as pain exploded in his cheek, his head banging against the wall as Vernon came at him. "Oh, that's right," Vernon mocked, slamming his foot into Harry's side. "Unless you want to be expelled, it can't protect you!" 

Several minutes later, the beating came to a peak as Harry writhed on his stomach, blood soaking into his thin t-shirt. His anger tapering down, Vernon got one last kick in, pressing his foot into Harry's back. Hard. 

A sickening crack resounded through the room, followed quickly by an ear-splitting scream that Harry could not contain. Mercifully, Vernon paused in his assault, glancing down at his suddenly motionless nephew. The boy was alive, clear by the soft panting breaths and imperceptible whimpers, but he held himself completely still. Harry sobbed silently, quiet gasps slipping past pale lips, blood-stained lips.

"Please, no more, " Harry croaked, eyes fluttering shut as he waited for the inevitable. His uncle never showed Harry mercy. 

But, amazingly, no other blows came. 

"Please. My back - " he cut off, biting his tongue as Vernon removed his foot, his spine twinging painfully. "I think you - I think it might be cracked," he whispered. "I could become p - paralyzed." 

Vernon was staring down at his own hands, stained with the blood of a now-twelve-year old. The slip of a boy was lying listlessly on the ground, shards of dishware still embedded into his bruised and battered skin. Sweaty black hair was splayed like a halo, the boy's eyes peeking up through limp fringe. His vibrant green stare becoming glazed with diminishing lucidity, Harry watched as his Uncle slowly backed out of the room, face red and chins wobbling. 

The man opened his mouth, saliva dripping from his lips, but no parting words came. Vernon shakily shut the door behind him, leaving a blood hand-print on the bronze knob. Harry let out a breath of relief, his lungs burning, and Hedwig hooted concernedly as her master finally slipped into blessed darkness. 

Oddly enough, from the other side of the door, Vernon couldn't even muster the will to threaten her. 

"Freak deserved it," the man told himself, fists clenching. A drop of blood slipped down to stain his shiny black shoes, and the man breathed out heavily.

"Petunia!" he bellowed out. "Get me something to drink. Something strong."  

To be continued . . .