Chapter Text
JUNE 2016
Harry Potter was having the most miserable summer of his life. He thought so each summer and somehow it always got worse. This summer was proving to be the worst one yet and longer too.
His hands trembled as he stood in front of the mirror, he would get jitters from time to time mostly around his hands like a thousand needles poking at once, courtesy of Voldemort. He stared at the vomit in the sink with a hint of blood stark against white porcelain. He looked up at his reflection in the mirror and met his tired gaze, his face was paler than usual, hair damp from the night sweats and eyes baggy due to the lack of sleep.
Closing his eyes he took a few deep breaths in to collect himself and calm his nerves, when he heard footsteps from down the hall- Uncle Vernon must have gotten up early- and made quick work to clean up his mess in the bathroom, not wanting to piss him off. Vernon had lost his job earlier this year. Given the recent market growth for modern technology, traditional companies like the Grunnings suffered massive layoffs, Vernon being one of them. He hadn't taken the news well from what Harry could see, as he had developed a drinking habit. He was even quicker to anger now. Aunt Petunia was clearly unhappy about the situation something she never failed to express. To his surprise, they hadn't refused to take him in, despite their financial troubles. It didn't take him long to figure out why. Clearly they needed a punch bag to take their frustration out on while he also did the chores, he thought sardonically.
Turning off the water, he walked out of the bathroom and back to his room quietly. He locked the door and lay on his bed, one hand draped over his eyes trying to shut out the world. He heard a tapping on his window. Hedwig was back, although her beak was empty. He hid his disappointment as he let her in, petting her soft feathers while she nipped at his fingers affectionately. At least he had her.
"Hey, there girl. You must be hungry." He had some bacon saved from yesterday and he fed it to her while she oggled him with her dark eyes, wings fluttering.
Then there was no contact from his friends. He had even written to Remus, Fred, George...Dumbledore in desperation. Still, not a single one of them replied. He had so many questions- what the Prophet was saying now? Were they reporting Voldemort's return? Or did they think he was guilty for fleeing early? Did they even believe that Voldemort was back?- and no one to answer them.
After the horrific events of that night in the graveyard, Harry had returned to Hogwarts clutching the lifeless body of Cedric Diggory. Whisked away by "Professor Moody," he was saved when Professor Snape and Dumbledore had burst into the room. Harry had then recounted every single detail, from Voldemort’s resurrection out of the cauldron to the locking of their wands during the duel, Priori Incantatem a rare magical phenomenon or whatever Snape said he was out of it at the time and sleep had claimed him quickly afterwards, thanks to the dreamless potions among others that Madam Pomfrey gave him to speed his recovery. That had just been the beginning of the nightmare about to be followed. When Harry woke three days later, a grave looking Dumbledore sat at his bedside, and filled him in on the devastating aftermath that had unfolded while he was unconscious.
No one believed him, of fucking course. The whole Hufflepuff house turned against him in solidarity with their fallen member. The Ravens were too smart to say anything to his face and the Slytherins were... well slytherins. The Gryffindors stood by him. However, he heard them whispers behind his back. The media had deemed him a liar since he had no actual proof of the dark lord's return. A few even blamed Harry for the tragic demise of Cedric. He didn't believe it to be true at first, had he not faced the backlash himself. It was during his visit to Gringotts to settle his accounts paperwork given his recent acquisition of Tri-Wizard Tournament prize money.
Cedric's father protested against Harry. Amos Diggory blamed him for his son's death and demanded a court trial against Harry. The Ministry had to end the year early to give the students some time to mourn their fallen students. Harry hoped that would mean him not returning to the Dursleys but as fate would have it, he wasn't so lucky. They didn't agree with Mr. Diggory's accusation but most of them definitely think that he was faking the return of the Dark Lord.
Harry didn't really blame them. When given the choice between believing in the return of genocidal maniac, Voldemort, out for blood compared to the words of an 'attention seeking brat' and a paranoid old headmaster looking for publicity, he too would believe the lies for his own peace. He could see why most of them chose to remain ignorant. It still sparked a chord of hatred which was new for him. But he had been cut off from both worlds. One wouldn't acknowledge him and the other he wasn't well versed in.
But thinking about the backlash during his visit to Gringotts was easier than remembering his meeting with Stirmov- the goblin in charge of the Potter family Vault- he was the only happy one in this whole ordeal. He had no plans on ever spending the money anyways. it was blood money and nothing good ever came from the suffering of others. He had brought back with him his mum's diary from down the locker, the contents of which had been like opening a Pandora box. It was currently buried under his mattress, as if that would erase the contents of it.
He pushed all the thoughts of his mum, her diary and everything away. Not yet. He wasn't ready to think about its contents and the life altering information they had.
A week passed since and the silence continued. He has even stopped sending out Hedwig. His health was rapidly declining for the worst, as if the nightmares weren't enough. The wizarding society may not have any proof of Voldemort's return but his body certainly did. The cruciatus he was under hurt like hell, a molten lava like agony spreading throughout his body, all while Voldemort and his Death Eaters laughed. Ever since that night his heart seemed overworked; he felt it pacing against his ribcage, with constant thrumming in his ears most of the day. His physical episodes were becoming more and more frequent and violent too. And it was just the beginning of June.
Dear Merlin, how was he supposed to get through this for an entire summer?
"Do them dishes properly boy!" The harsh roar of his uncle's voice boomed from the living room, snapping Harry back to reality. He had zoned out yet again.
"...i swear to god, if I find you slacking off..." Harry quickly reverted his attention back to the dishes in the sink, doing his best to ignore the man.
"Yes, Uncle Vernon," he replied quietly. Aunt Petunia had taken Dudley and gone to visit Aunt Marge for the weekend which meant he was alone in the house with Vernon, who was currently busy watching news on loud volume. Aunt Petunia had reprimanded him countless times in the past but he never seemed to listen.
Its not like Harry needed to watch the news to know what the anchors were speaking about. It was the same ongoing debate over the unchecked powers of "Earth's Mightiest Heroes" which emphasized the urgent need for their strict governance, given the high civilian death toll and mass destruction left in the eastern European nation. Especially since today marked the one year since they defeated Ultron and his army in Sokovia or, as the media preferred to frame it, "destroyed the nation of Sokovia." The media, Harry noticed, was the same be it muggles or the wizarding society ones.
"Bloody freaks! Think they can go on about playing with the lives of us normal folks with their eccentrics!" Vernon barked. Harry flinched slightly at the word freak, still not entirely used to hearing such casual malice from his uncle even after all these years. At least it wasn't just magic that the man had a problem with. Apparently even "normal" humans with high intellect, powers or money registered as freaks in his playbook. good to know.
As Harry finished up washing the dishes, his eyes involuntarily glanced towards the television screen. He caught a glimpse of the Avengers in a footage showing them regrouping in the aftermath of Ultron's defeat, followed by the wreckage of Sokovia. An entire nation, wiped away in a matter of days. Ever since that then, there had been no sign of the Hulk, nor of Thor, the Asgardian God of Thunder. Though Thor might just be on his home planet, Asgard. Harry happened to be well-versed in Norse mythology, thanks to the history curriculum at Hogwarts. But there was no idea about the Hulks whereabout.
Harry looked away from the screen, his eyes accidentally drifting toward his uncle. Vernon immediately lashed out, "What on earth are you looking at, boy? You think you're special like them?" Harry simply lowered his eyes, refusing to give Vernon any leverage to lash out further.
"Well, let me tell you something, boy. You are A FREAK, just like the rest of them! A good-for-nothing dead weight in my house..." Vernon snapped his arms forward, flinging the tv remote across the living room, which struck Harry on the back of his head with a resounding thump.
He finished his chores and swiftly returned back to his bedroom, going unnoticed by Vernon. He locked the door behind him and moved to the bed, slowly pulling out the diary from underneath the covers. It felt deeply invasive at first, reading his mum's private memories, but he simply wanted to feel close to his parents. However, once he had started there was no going back. The contents of the diary were shocking, to say the least.
His fingers trembled slightly as he turned to the faithful page that has caused him so much emotional turmoil. not that he needed to, when the words were already imprinted in his mind.
Dear Diary,
It's finally happening. James and I are finally going to be parents. When we first found out we couldn't have children of our own, it broke our hearts. My hostile uterus with James's low fertility, due to all the stress of living through this war certainly didn't help. I honestly thought it just wasn't meant to be. I tried to make peace with it, but honestly it never stopped hurting. Finally after going through numerous magical treatments with no luck, we decided to give the muggle medical practice a try. It's called IVF for in vitro fertilisation. We had decided to travel to the US for the procedure. The clinic was relatively new and their strict policies perfectly suited our need for confidentiality. So after a month full of daily fertility injections, hormone regulators, and daily patience had won out. I am finally carrying a child successfully. We are expecting now. I can't wait to break the good news to James. Oh, he'll be over the moon!
It had been a lot to take in the first time he read it. To suddenly find out that James Potter wasn't his biological father was very overwhelming. He was still unsure what to make of this new information. Although his mother had clearly been heartbroken during their struggle with infertility, going by the previous entries. To think he was "conceived" in the US when He hasn't even gone out of the UK. He sometimes wondered who the donor was, since there was no profile available on the guy. Maybe they used an anonymous donor?
He turned to the next entry.
I sometimes worry about James, I wish I could have given him a baby, even though I know it's not up to us. We will be doing a blood adoption afterwards. Still, James has always wanted to be a father. He says that another donor doesn't matter since I'm the one bearing this child and any baby of mine, he will cherish. I just hope he means it. I feel terrible for even thinking that. Three months pregnant and already my hormones are all over the place. And, James takes such good care of me. I'm glad I married him. He finally dozed off after fawning over me and my baby bump for hours. He still has one hand draped over my belly, on guard even in his sleep, that's my James. I have no doubt that he'll be an excellent father.
This was another piece of information that Harry didn't know what to make of. James Potter might not be his biological father from the beginning, but he and Lily went through a massive amount of trouble just to bring him into the world. How on earth could he not love the man? He protected Harry till his last breath.
No one beside Sirius knew the truth of Harry's conception, as he learned from the diary and not the man himself. He looked down at his own pale hands which shook slightly from the stern grip he had on the diary. Harry pushed the thoughts aside, not wanting to sour the image of his godfather more than it already had. After all, Lily did carry him to labour. James did even blood adopt him. And Sirius, well, he was around at least. As a last resort, they had gone to such lengths only because they wanted him. His heart warmed at the thought.
The clinic’s run on the other hand was short-lived. A fire of unknown origin completely destroyed the facility and the medical records. Nine people including the doctors and staff all burned to death. The clinic never reopened and all traces of its existence vanished from public records. Harry had gone searching in a nearby library for more answers. He found out the "accidental fire" was later ruled as an act of arson by one of the staff members. No arrests were made nor was the arsonist's identity made public.
The unresolved details still sat like a heavy weight on his chest.
Harry never read the entries after his delivery due to the tragic and inevitable fate of his parents. James and Lily had a whole life ahead of them, only for a megalomaniacal, no-nose bastard to end it all. What right did Voldemort have to play with their lives?
An overwhelming wave of dread washed over him. He thought of all the others whose lives were cut short, either by the hands of Voldemort or those inside that clinic during the fire. From the beginning of his existence, death seemed to follow Harry's every step. His parents, the people at the clinic, Cedric... And now that Voldemort is back, how many more people were going to die because of him?
Exhausted, he put the diary back, pulled the covers over his head and tried to sleep, hoping to put some distance between him and his thoughts.
His world flickered from shadows to a dark hallway. He stepped from soft, warm carpet to cold hardwood of stairs. He forces his way through, a sinking feeling clawing at his gut with each ascension. Familiarity poked his senses amidst the silence. But his body didn't obey and he felt foreign in his own skin. The distinct, bluish hue of the corridor was unmistakable with every step he took. He moved toward the center of the nursery, and a sudden flash of auburn hair crossed his vision. He raised his wand to get rid of her.
Wait, what? No, that's not right.
He tried to lower his arm, but the muscles won't budge. When he spoke, the voice that vibrated through his vocal cords was not his own. It was cold, high, and cruel.
"Step aside, girl." Oh.
"Not Harry, please! Not my son!" Powerless to stop it, Harry was forced to watch through the eyes of Voldemort as he cast the killing curse. His mother’s body crashed on the floor, completely stiff.
‘I’m sorry,’ he wanted to say but he couldn't get his lips to move. He screamed in the vacuum, crashing on the ground, his head against the floor, shoulders curling in defeat. Then, from the silence, came the voice that Harry knew. A voice he hated and feared, as it whispered in his ears.
Harry... Harry...
He felt it like venom in his veins, spreading across every vessel burning frigid fire.
Look at what you caused...
His body finally began to shut down. He felt it freezing beneath the layers of sweat and grime. Suddenly his scar flared jolting him from his stupor. He woke up choking on his saliva, desperately fighting the bile rising in his throat. His body was finally shutting down. The constant thrumming in his chest was back, his heart hammering against his ribcage ready to burst out any second.
Not again. He forced his eyes open, his vision heavily blurred from how hard he was squinting before. The bedroom walls seemed to be zooming in on him.
He couldn't breathe. Why couldn't he breathe? He was dying. There was simply no other way of explaining his condition.
"Make it stop, make it stop," desperate mumbles slipping from his lips, though he couldn't even hear his own voice due to constant ringing assaulting his ears. The plea dripped from his mouth like the dark, slick copper of the blood he could feel trailing down his forehead from his scar. He couldn’t remember how to be human. He couldn’t remember anything about himself, before he plummeted back into the darkness.
When he awoke next, his first thought was he shouldn't have. He was lying on the cold floor covered in vomit and dried blood. There was a slow, wet trickle running from his nose, sticky and cold over his lips.
Wait. Cold? He brought a trembling finger to the pooling liquid, pulling it away only to find his pale fingers smeared in black pigment. What the hell? This was new. Harry didn't know what was what anymore, and it was killing him sooner than he had expected. He had absolutely zero stamina left, simply pushing himself up into a sitting position consumed the last of his energy.
His eyes landed on Hedwig perched in her cage oggling him, unfazed by his state. He envied her, truly. She could simply fly away, by spreading her wings in the open whenever she pleased. He wanted to send her out again, his grudges be damned. But who would he even write to? The same people who had been ignoring his letters for the last two weeks?
Yeah, right. At the end of the day, it was only him and Hedwig. Besides her who did he have? No one.
Another wave of bile rose in his throat. He tried to regulate his breathing, but his lungs refused to cooperate, and he rolled over onto his hands and knees to dry heave. Not surprising when nothing comes up, considering his stomach was completely empty, but to his horror the sharp metallic taste of blood stung his taste buds. He wiped away the trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth.
These episodes had gotten more frequent ever since his return from Hogwarts. If he was awake, he was subjected to these physical breakdowns and if he was asleep, he was plagued by nightmares. Voldemort constantly taunted him, replaying the deaths of his loved ones in a loop. He would give anything, absolutely anything, to make these stop. He was not sure how much longer he could survive. He needed Sirius. First, he just had to figure out a way to get a message to him without it being ignored. What could he do? Laying his head back against the side of the mattress to elevate his forehead, to help ease the pressure in his skull slightly.
Suddenly an idea hit him like a lightning bolt. He focused entirely on channeling his magic. The darkness crept around the edges of his vision, but he aggressively fought the wave of exhaustion away. No, he was not going to die here. For a minute, nothing happened just a vast, void of darkness. Then, a subtle glimmer of light rose in the air. Its shimmer so light before it faded.
"Come on... please, please..." Harry reached out again, pulling hard on his magic. The sparks reappeared, drifting in the space like a fine thread of magic. He grasped it and the magic wrapped around his form like a warm, protective shield. He willed his magic before it faded.
DOBBY
The world tilted around him, flickering shadows and the familiar walls of his bedroom rushing back into focus. But there was no sign of a house-elf. Had he failed? He didn't fully understand the principles of house elf magic. He had simply willed his magic into summoning Dobby. Then, the bedroom door gave a quiet creak. A dense thrum of air vibrated in the center of the room before a resounding soft crack echoed and a much cleaner looking Dobby materialized in front of him.
"Harry Potter called for Dobby?" the elf announced, his tone as upbeat as usual.
Perhaps it was the weight of the past two weeks of isolation, but Harry could seriously have cried at the sight of a familiar face. A slow, tired smile spread across his face as he looked at the little creature. Dobby was dressed in clean and well-fitting clothes, a stark contrast to the ragged clothes he had donned two years ago.
"I did. It's really good to see you, Dobby," he whispered, trying and failing to keep the tremor out of his voice.
Dobby's expression shifted instantly, his wide eyes going from exhilaration to concern in a second. The elf stepped forward, placing his small, cool hand against Harry's forehead. A massive wave of relief washed over him. It didn't completely cure the pain, but it immediately abated his fever and headache, and cleaned the dirt from his clothes. With another quick snap of Dobby's fingers, the dried vomit and its suffocating stench vanished from the room completely.
"Thank you, Dobby," Harry breathed easier, finally meeting the elf's gaze. "And... you can just call me Harry.
"As Harry Potter wishes," Dobby squeaked, nodding his head in place. Harry let out a weak laugh, which quickly devolved into another coughing fit. When he pulled his hand away from his mouth, his palm had dotted specks of blood. Dobby scrambled beside him, looking down at his palm with immense worry.
Right. Message to Sirius.
"What can Dobby do for Harry Potter?" the elf asked softly.
"Dobby, can you find Sirius and give him a message from me? I don't know where he's hiding, so I figured you could help me with that."
"Dobby can most certainly help his friend Harry Potter!" Dobby declared with conviction. Harry reached over to his bedside table, grabbed a pen and a scrap of paper. Feeling much better thanks to Dobby's soothing magic, he wrote the message for Sirius, he kept it short, hoping that would highlight his urgency to Sirius. He handed the folded parchment to the elf, giving him clear, strict instructions—make sure you go unnoticed. Give the letter only to Sirius Black. Nobody else. And do not leave his side until he gives Dobby an answer.
"Harry Potter must rest, while Dobby takes care of Harry Potter's matter," Dobby insisted, refusing to leave his side until Harry fell asleep. Obeying, Harry lay back, closing his eyes to appease the stubborn elf. But as he did, he felt a tiny, comforting hand gently brushing against his brow. Again, that soft and cool wave of magic washed over him, and he drifted off into a deep, dreamless slumber.
And for the first time this summer, Harry slept like a baby.