Chapter Text
Kitted out in his worst pair of jeans and a very sorry looking t-shirt, Harry Potter stepped out into the back garden of Number Four, Privet Drive. His neck was red, his anger still hot in his veins after a tongue-lashing from his uncle about ‘looking like a filthy layabout’. He gripped the shed key tightly in his hand, the pain of the metal biting into his hand helping him rein in his temper.
Usually he was able to deflect some of the insults flung his way, but his skin was lacking its usual thickness. It was a Thursday which usually would mean his Uncle Vernon would be at work. Unfortunately, he had taken some holiday off, which meant he was around the house. Thankfully at least Harry had been tasked with mowing the grass and so was far away from his uncle’s ever-watching, ever-scrutinising gaze. He huffed out a pained sigh as he rattled the padlock on the shed door, trying to get the rusted thing open. It sprung open at last and he stepped into the spider infested place, giving a sneeze as the smell of dust and dirt hit him. He doubted his aunt ever stepped foot in the shed.
He wheeled out the heavy, cumbersome lawnmower, grumbling under his breath as he did. He hated the thing, the oily smell it gave off, the fumey petrol motor that used to scare him when he was little. Even though he was a lot bigger than he used to be when made to cut the lawn as a child, he still felt unnerved by the machine. He got to work, his body aching pretty much immediately as the vibrations from the machine rattled his bones. At least the smell of cut grass was pleasant.
The Dursleys always gambled with this particular chore. While they wanted him to do as much as possible to ‘earn his keep’, working in the garden ran the risk of him being spotted by the neighbours. Of course, they should be more concerned if he was spotted by Death Eaters.
It took Harry a while to finish the back garden. If he did a miserable job, he would only be made to do it again. He took the effort to make sure the lawn had perfect stripes running up and down. Once done, he wheeled the beastly thing to the front garden, opening up the gate. His green eyes darted left and right, scanning the street. His hand brushed against the waistband of his jeans to where the handle of his wand was sticking out.
Harry yanked the pull cord of the mower and set the metal beast off again. While he pushed the damn thing up and down, he thought about what his friends would think about how he was spending his summer. His wandering thoughts soon turned sour, his mood darkening. He’d only been back at Privet Drive for just over a week and was already desperate to leave. The promises of spending time at The Burrow soon felt empty when his letter asking Ron when they’d be able to free him from his summer prison stay had gone unanswered. With Hedwig gone, he was without the means to write to Hermione and stave away his loneliness with correspondence. As Hermione had no owl of her own, she couldn’t contact him at all.
The loneliness felt crueler than ever. Being isolated from his friends and from any news about the magical world, he kept battling intense moments of fear and helplessness. His nightmares were worse than ever and his fresh traumas began to plague him during the waking hours as well as at night.
Then there was his grief.
Something Harry had learned very young in life was how it wasn’t the loss of a loved one that hurt the most. It was the loss of what could have been. It was the agony of looking into a mirror and seeing the physical evidence of his great loss, etched in his own skin. It was found in the jealous burn he felt whenever he witnessed a loving parent comfort their child. It made each and every hateful word thrown his way from his only living family cut that much deeper. And now it was raw; it was new and fresh and he had to deal with it all over again, on his own, because he had no one in his life who would support him in his sorrow when he truly needed it.
After everything that happened at the Department of Mysteries, he wasn’t entirely certain if he deserved it. Sirius was gone and it was all his fault.
The pain struck him at random moments, yet he was always alone when it happened. With the violent tremors of the lawn-mower engine wracking his body, they almost shook the tears out of him. Harry found himself with sweat and tears on his face, struggling to wipe away the moisture from under his glasses without losing control of the lawn-mower. The last thing he wanted was to accidentally plough through his aunt’s agapanthuses. By the time he reached the last patch of the lawn, he was relatively back in control. Sighing out with relief, he finally switched off the engine. His arms felt like rubber.
Without the roaring of the lawnmower, Privet Drive almost seemed peaceful. Harry stretched out his back, wincing as it cracked in response. His shirt was stuck to his skin, sweat patches unpleasantly dampening at his armpits. He already knew that he was due to be yelled at for his appearance once again as if it was his fault for being sweaty after working in the hot weather.
Dragging the lawn-mower back with him to the shed, he stalled when the neighbour at Number six suddenly peaked his head over the fence. Usually it was his aunt doing the peeping tom act. Harry ducked his head down, willing the neighbour to not make conversation with him. Thankfully, the neighbour must have realised that it was the delinquent nephew out and about as he didn’t say anything immediately to him. Harry could feel his face reddening at the attention from the man and, when he reached the shed, not acknowledging the neighbour would just be purposefully rude at that point. He stopped, looking up. He vaguely recognised the neighbour from seeing him through the window, but he didn’t know his name.
“Hello, lad,” the man greeted, his voice bright and friendly. Harry tried to not stare in surprise as no one treated him in a friendly way at Privet Drive. “I see Vernon hasn’t wasted any time in putting you to work.”
Harry had no idea what to say to the comment. Was he joking? Or did the man think he deserved the hard work as some sort of character building treatment? He sheepishly rubbed at the back of his sweat-dampened neck.
“Um, I suppose so,” Harry said, flushing more at his useless response. He raised his gaze, frowning a little when he saw the downturned mouth of the middle-aged man as he regarded the heavy, cumbersome beast that Harry had to use.
“Hmm… well, I have to say, I wouldn’t be too happy if my son was using something that dangerous.”
Harry almost laughed bitterly. If only the lawnmower was the most dangerous thing in Harry’s life. He managed a weak smile in response as he wrenched open the shed door. Then he froze as he heard the back door from the kitchen open.
“Keith, old chap!” Vernon boomed from the door, his voice falsely jolly. Harry tensed, an old fear gripping his muscles, instinctively bracing to run. “I didn’t know you and Linda were back from holiday.”
Vernon reached Harry, his meaty hand coming down to his shoulder. Any other time, the gesture would appear amicable, even friendly, but Harry knew it was far from either.
“Why don’t you head back inside?” Vernon suggested to him, injecting more fake friendliness. “I can put the mower away.”
Harry nodded numbly, flashing the neighbour his best attempt at a smile again. The neighbour, however, didn’t return it. He considered Vernon with a flat wariness. Not understanding and not in a hurry to get himself in further trouble, Harry did as he was told. He could hear the two men talking, their voices oddly lowered. Harry glanced back, seeing that Vernon had gotten closer to the fence, leaving the mower behind. Harry saw the neighbour looking in Harry’s direction as he spoke.
The second Harry stepped into the kitchen, he was face-to-face with his aunt. She crowded him away from the door, shepherding him out of sight from outside. His relative’s behaviour started to make more sense.
“What did you do?” She demanded, her finger pointing in his face before going to point out the window. “What did he see?”
“I didn’t do anything. I was just putting the mower away,” Harry attempted to defend himself even though he knew it was pointless. Petunia sniffed, taking in his sweat-stained clothes. Her nose wrinkled with disgust.
“You better not be lying. I don’t know what you are playing at, giving our telephone number out so we can have your friends hassle us along with everything else we have to live with, but-.”
“What are you talking about?” Harry interrupted, stumped at what she was saying. Surely she wasn’t bringing up the time years ago when Ron called the house phone. Petunia’s brows drew together.
“Some girl called earlier while you were outside.”
Harry just stared at her, astonished. Then he shook his head. “I swear, I had nothing to do about that. I gave the number to my friends years ago. I had no idea that either of them still had it.” He then felt his face grow cold as the realisation settled in. “Who answered? You didn’t shout at her, did you?”
Petunia’s cold brown eyes narrowed at him in the way they always did when he was younger and he dared to ask questions. He could see her still trying to work out if he was being smart with her or not. His back tensed up as he heard the heavy stomping of his uncle returning. Age old dread weighed on him as he knew that no amount of reasoning was going to get him out of getting punished. As was the law of things in the Dursley house. It was always his fault.
When Vernon got back inside, Harry could tell something had been said to him that had made him more wary than normal. Rather than explode at Harry with shouting, he instead grabbed his arm and pulled him into the living room. Harry’s heart had already begun to race.
“Vernon, keep your voice down,” Petunia warned, moving to follow. “I said about the phone call.”
Vernon released Harry’s arm and bared down on him. Harry had grown over the last year so the effect wasn’t as intimidating as it used to be. Harry scowled, anger and hurt pulsing in waves through him along with his fear. He snatched his arm back, taking a cautious step back so he was further from Vernon’s reach.
“You listen here, boy,” Vernon seethed, his red face filling Harry’s vision. “If I hear another word about you from anyone, you will regret it. No more phone calls. No more hassling the neighbours-.”
“I didn’t-”
His protest was cut off violently as Vernon grabbed him by the front of his t-shirt. He was yanked forwards so he was almost nose-to-nose with the older man. Harry shut his mouth at once, now terrified. Gone was his usual fiery self, the brave Gryffindor who barrelled into danger, head first. Gone was the fighter, the ingrained warrior who inspired others to take a stand. In his place was a scared child who had been through too much. He wanted to hide away, make himself small. He wanted to disappear completely.
“Go to your room and don’t come out until I say so,” Vernon snarled, releasing him.
Harry felt as if he was going to be sick. He nodded and left at once, shaking head-to-toe. He ran, eyes burning as his chest tightened. He couldn’t show his weakness, not in front of Vernon. He turned his face away just in case they caught the raw hurt that was bleeding out of him like an exposed wound. He made it up the stairs, his breathing ragged. Once he pushed open the door, he slammed it shut. It was suddenly impossible to pull in air, his shirt feeling as if it was throttling him. Harry pulled at his collar, but it was loose and baggy. He should be able to breathe just fine.
He ambled over to the window, his face cold from where tears had fallen. It was still open and he needed air. He grasped at the window pane, pushing his head through the gap and heaved in a full lungful. It helped a little, feeling the breeze, feeling a little less trapped and crushed.
Once he managed to calm himself down enough, he threw himself down on the bed. The weary mattress clunked under his weight and he rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. He focused on a cobweb that was hanging in the corner.
He knew what was happening to him. The abuse. He’d known it for many years. He just hung onto the hope that one day, he would never have to see either of his relatives again. The future terrified him more and more with each passing day. He could just see a long, lonely road with just more death littered along the way. He had no choice but to keep going, keep the pain inside and show no one his weakness. It was the only way to keep living, to cling onto the precious gift that his parents died for. His life.
It was private, quiet moments such as then when Harry missed his parents the most. He tried to imagine their phantom arms gathering him up in a warm embrace. He brought his own arms around himself, playing out a behaviour that he hadn’t quite lost from when he would comfort himself in the cupboard. His imagination was his only escape. Dreams of a family who loved him keeping him company in the dark.
Exhaustion, both emotional and physical, had Harry falling asleep in his clothes. He had curled up on his side, tucked in a ball shape.
When he woke up, it was nighttime. Chittering greeted him at the window and he sighed in relief to see that Hedwig had returned. He removed the letter from her leg, noticing by the door that a plate with cold chips and a piece of fish had been pushed through the cat flap in his door. It was something, at least. He gave half the fish to Hedwig, absently chewing the cold chips as he read Ron’s letter. It wasn’t all that informative, but then Ron had only been home for a couple of days when Harry sent Hedwig off. There was something about Fred and George having moved out. Ron said it was quiet, making Harry scoff.
He should try living with a family who liked to pretend he didn’t exist.
Harry was faintly surprised to find that the Dursleys hadn’t locked him in. He could hear Vernon and Petunia down in the living room, watching the telly. Quietly, he headed downstairs towards the kitchen, taking his plate down. He washed up in the dark, fetching himself a glass of water. His presence hadn’t been noticed at all and, like a ghost, he drifted back upstairs. He made use of peace and quiet, using the bathroom to get showered and ready for bed properly. By the time he was back in his room, he heard the front door go.
Thudding footsteps came next. Harry frowned, recognising the angered gait of his uncle even from upstairs.
“What time do you call this?!” Vernon’s voice carried from downstairs. “We were getting this close to calling the Police, Dudley!”
Harry lay back in shock. Dudley was in trouble?
“I was just out with Malcolm…”
“Is that…? Have you been smoking?” Vernon exploded next.
A smile grew on Harry’s face, satisfaction easing the pain inside him a little. He laughed quietly at the sound of Dudley’s pathetic attempts to persuade now both parents that it wasn’t him.
“Malcolm’s older brother smokes, dad. It wasn’t me, honest! We were just hanging out in the park…”
Harry knew for a fact that Dudley and his friends didn’t ‘hang out’. They were the menace of the suburb whenever Dudley was home for the holidays, petrifying the younger kids as a form of entertainment, hassling people with leers and throwing stones at cars. It was only a matter of time before they got into real trouble. It appeared that Vernon could literally sniff out the trouble. It was all a little too late for him to realise that his son was a disaster waiting to happen.
Dudley leaned on one of his old tricks to get out of trouble next, wailing out and whining. It wasn’t as effective when coming from a sixteen-year-old boxing champion. Vernon grumbled something and it didn’t go down well.
“What do you mean I’m grounded?!”
“Ha,” Harry breathed out, now thoroughly enjoying himself.
“You were supposed to be home at ten and it’s past midnight,” Petunia put in then, “Pompkin, we were worried about you.”
Harry’s amusement drained away then. Had he been out all night, she and Vernon would probably be praying that he had been killed or abducted in the dead of night. Bleakly, he then remembered that he was at a high risk of that happening. Not that they cared at all. He then sobered further. Dudley was in danger as well.
Then he heard his name come up.
“... you didn’t have Harry with you this time. What if one of his lot came after you? What then? It isn’t safe…”
It was typical that Petunia felt that Harry’s only purpose was the protection he provided for them. Discovering the truth about why he had been left with his aunt in the first place hadn’t come as a pleasant revelation. She only took him in so that his mother’s protection kept them all safe from Voldemort’s followers.
From the stomping retreat of Dudley heading up the stairs, it appeared the argument was over. His footsteps stopped for a moment outside Harry’s door. For a wild moment, Harry thought he was going to knock, but then he continued down the hallway.
Any amusement Harry felt towards Dudley getting grounded had evaporated when the weekend started. Dudley spent Friday sulking in his room, which suited Harry just fine because he was too busy doing the same to be bothered by his hulking presence. When he did leave his room, Harry kept out of his way, all too aware that he was usually the outlet for Dudley’s frustrations and he doubted his cousin had kicked the habit of punching Harry out of spite. Harry wasn’t about to write to the Order to complain about his bullying cousin.
He had, however, written to Hermione. It had been a very awkward letter where he profusely apologised for anything that was said to her from his relatives. He also thanked her for her thoughtfulness for at least trying to speak to him and going that extra step. He was grateful to have someone who cared. Yet she felt so far away.
On the Sunday, Harry was actually relieved when his aunt told him that the bushes under the living room window needed trimming. Any excuse for him to get away from the infernally annoying noise coming from Dudley’s room. Dudley’s choice of teenage rebellion was to play on his Playstation as loudly as possible. Harry could tell that his nerves weren’t the only ones being tested. He had noticed the tension on Petunia’s face, her fears about the neighbours complaining clearly straining her patience with her son. Harry, by comparison, dutifully went about his chores without a word of complaint. His point was loud and clear. He wasn’t the problem child. He was the abused child.
Once Harry had settled himself on his knees in front of the flower bed, he had a suspicion that Petunia wanted the neighbours to see him at work. Dudley may be a result of a serious lack of discipline, but he was the result of the complete opposite. Harry had long since given up trying to understand the way Petunia and Vernon rationalised things. They were so trapped in their little world, under the delusion that they were very picture of normality, that they missed how the neighbours really thought of them.
Harry was contentedly dead-heading the hydrangea when he heard the phone ring. He half-heartedly started to eavesdrop when his aunt answered the phone.
“Hello, Dursley residence.”
He rolled his eyes at the stupid way his aunt and uncle answered the phone. He snipped at a few more withered flowers. What he heard next nearly had him snipping his fingers.
“My nephew isn’t in.”
Harry dropped the secateurs in shock. Surely Hermione wasn’t trying again? He smacked himself in the forehead, groaning. Of course, she was. She was more stubborn than he was.
“I… I beg your pardon!” Petunia suddenly burst out, sounding outraged. “You cannot call my home and accuse me of lying. I don’t know who you and your daughter are, but this is unacceptable… is that a threat?”
Raising to stand, Harry gravitated over to the front door, wishing he could hear what was being said on the other line.
“Very well, you have made your point. I will have words with Harry about this appalling behaviour, bothering the parents of his friends to hassle us on his behalf. Your daughter can speak to him, but that is as far as my lenience will go.”
Harry didn’t care that he was in trouble. He was breathless with amazement. The security chain on the front door unlatched. The door opened, revealing his aunt’s furious visage.
“You! Get in here and tell your wit-.” Petunia cut herself off, looking horrified as she nearly said ‘witch’ out loud. She recovered and pushed the door open wider. “Make them stop calling and I won’t tell Vernon about this.”
Harry stepped inside, just eager to speak to Hermione. He wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans, moving around his aunt to go to where the phone was waiting on the counter, attached to the wall just beside the door to his old cupboard. He ignored the spectre of his childhood as he reached the receiver. He couldn’t even remember the last time he used a telephone.
Petunia shut the door and gave him a warning look before she slid back into the living room. He expected she would be listening in, or trying to at least. He sighed and brought the phone up to his ear.
“Hello?”
“Oh, thank goodness. I don’t know if you remember me. We met so long ago, but I’m Hermione’s mum, Miranda. She’s right here… so don’t worry, you can talk with her in a moment.”
Harry beamed at the friendly voice on the other side. She sounded so much like Hermione, even speaking at the same break-neck speed.
“Before you do, I am very concerned that we may have made things worse for you. Now I fully expect your aunt is listening to you, so you don’t have to say anything more than yes or no, okay?”
Harry found it suddenly hard to speak. He gripped the receiver, awed that he was hearing an adult who sounded concerned about him.
“Just one question, then I’ve done my parental duty. I’m sorry to have to ask you this, but do you need our help?”
He sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes darting over to the living room in a brief panic. He then looked at the cupboard, seeing the marks on the white paint where there used to be a bolt screwed in. The evidence of such abuse was right before his eyes. One word and he would speak up about his sad truth. Or one word and he would continue to suffer in silence.
“Yes,” he answered.
“That was very brave of you. We're going to do what we can, alright? I’ll hand you over now.”
Harry closed his eyes. Hermione now knew.
“Harry?”
Her voice had the breath he was holding rushing right back out of him. He found himself smiling in relief. He pressed his forehead against the doorframe, letting the tension ease out of him.
“Hi Hermione. Blimey, you really wanted to talk to me, huh?” He laughed faintly, feeling breathless.
“I’m so sorry that I’ve gotten you into trouble,” Hermione immediately said, sounding anguished. “I thought that your aunt would be more reasonable if she spoke to a muggle, but you’re still in trouble even though it’s not your fault at all and it’s totally unfair to not let you speak to me. This call doesn’t even cost them anything. I’m calling you!”
Her righteous indignation sent waves of warmth through him.
“It’s alright, Hermione, honestly. I survived when Ron called that time. They’re angry at me, sure, but what’s new?” He winced at his candidness, knowing that Petunia would not appreciate him telling someone such a thing.
“I know that if I call again, I really will get you in trouble, but you’re my best friend… I can’t stand around and do nothing while I know you’re on your own and with those… those people. I’ve asked mum and dad already, so they are on board. We can pick you up tomorrow morning-.”
“Wait, what?” Harry was stunned. “Pick me up? Like in a car?”
“Yes, of course a car. ” Harry could almost hear her eyes rolling. “I have your address. I found it when I found the phone number. I was just going through my trunk and found it right at the bottom. I just had to call… but anyway, mum has tomorrow off work so we can come to Surrey. I expect this will throw the Order into a tizz, but frankly… I don’t really care. There’s a lot more I have to say about all that and it’s best done in person. Of course, it’s up to you… and if you’d rather stay there-.”
“Are you kidding me? Honestly, I could kiss you right now!”
Blood rushed to his face at once. His mouth dropped open. Hermione, understandably, was silent after that just came out of his mouth. Where the Hell had that come from?
“Er… I meant that as an expression…” He said, deeply awkward.
“I know,” Hermione said and, from the thickness of her voice, he had embarrassed her as well. He cursed himself viciously. Why was he such an idiot?
“I just mean, thank you … a hundred times, thank you. I want to get out of here and, if you can do that, then… yeah, please.”
He could hear Hermione’s heavy breathing and he hoped he hadn’t done something stupid enough to make her cry. What was it with him and inadvertently making girls cry?
“Brilliant! I can’t wait to see you. I just hope your aunt and uncle aren’t too hard on you.”
“Honestly, they’ll be thrilled to be rid of me.”
“Mum drives a silver volvo estate so you’ll know it’s us when we come. I… I guess, see you tomorrow, Harry.”
“Yeah, see you then. Bye.”
“Bye…”
Harry put the phone down, but as he did, he had a feeling that he cut her off. He stood quietly for a moment, rocking a little in his disbelief. A small smile remained on his face as he brought his hand up over his chest. He relished the warmth, the deep affection that he felt. The gesture of calling him alone and fighting for him touched him more than he had words to express. He only wished he had some way to repay such kindness.
He resolved himself, then and there, that he would spend the rest of the summer dedicated to finding ways to show Hermione just how much she meant to him.
After all, Harry Potter did like a challenge.