Chapter Text
Harry was ready to wring Dobby’s neck the next time he saw him.
The floor beneath him was freezing as Harry pushed himself up to lean gingerly against the wall. He winced as the wall pushed against the gashes from Uncle Vernon’s belt, causing fiery heat to spread across his body.
Everything hurt, from his eyelashes to his toenails, all Harry could register was the dull and throbbing pain that radiated from every cut and bruise he’d managed to accumulate the night before.
The sun was already setting, from the looks of it. That means Harry had been asleep almost a full day. (Passed out, whatever . Same difference.)
It took a few minutes, waiting for the throbbing to subside enough for him to process what was happening, until Harry finally registered Hedwig’s cautious hooting from her cage.
“‘M sorry, girl,” Harry murmured gently, his voice hoarse and raspy. “Gimme a second.”
Getting onto his feet hurt horribly. The skin on Harry’s back pulled at his wounds and his ribcage screamed as he was forced to bed at the waist to push himself up.
“Fucking fantastic.” Harry’s chest and stomach was a conglomeration of bruises inlaid with variously sized cuts. Black and blue handprints had been pressed into his arms and Harry’s throat felt raw and sore.
When Harry was finally on his feet he shuffled over to where Hedwig’s cage was perched and pulled open the drawer beneath her. The food he kept there was old and stale, but the best he had for Hedwig. He pulled out some water as well and set her meager settings within her cage. “That’s all for today, girl.” Harry reached out to scratch gently behind Hedwig’s head and managed a tiny smile. Hedwig pecked back ever so gently and pressed her head into his hand before turning toward her food.
With a great sigh, Harry shuffled over and was able to heave himself onto the thin cot pressed up against the wall.
Harry could feel the familiar sensation of incoming tears, but none came out. His cheeks were tacky and he felt bone tired despite how much he’d already slept. He almost wanted to cry, just to feel something other than the hollowness that had carved itself into his chest, but all Harry felt was… numb.
It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling. Just disappointing.
Harry woke up the next day to the familiar banging on his bedroom door and Aunt Petunia’s shrieking voice yelling at him to wake up and get to it.
Everything was just as sore as it had been the night before. At least now, the pain had faded into a background noise that buzzed in the back of his skull, alongside the now throbbing ache in his wrist where he’d hit it the night before.
The sun was higher in the sky than it usually was when he was woken up, shining faintly through the broken blinds over the window. Harry took that to mean that Aunt Petunia had given him a bit longer to rest, so, small mercies.
It was slow going down the staircase and to the kitchen, but when Harry got there he was able to sit back in his mind’s eye and let himself run on autopilot. He got out the eggs and milk and the mix, and began on a breakfast that was simple enough to make, but not so that his aunt and uncle would punish him for being lazy.
Harry was so far gone in his head that he hadn’t even noticed the Dursleys now eating until Dudley was helping himself to thirds. The only reason he was brought back was by Uncle Vernon snapping at him about what he wanted done that day. Harry made a mental list of everything (he had gotten quite good at that over the years) and nodded along at all the correct intervals. He was too tired to be his regular smartass self and didn’t want to risk another lashing on top of the one he’d already been subject to not two days earlier.
Harry trudged off towards the stairs, ready to begin cleaning from the top down. As he rounded the corner, Dudley shoved past, his shoulder catching in between Harry’s shoulder blades hard.
Without warning, Harry’s knees buckled as he caught a groan of pain from passing through his lips. Harry could hear his cousin’s mocking laugh behind him as he leaned against the banister for support.
Then, abruptly, the laughter cut off.
It was strange enough for Harry to glance around. He saw Dudley’s fat cheeks begin to pale and his forehead scrunch up in a strange way that he’d never seen him do before.
“Your… your back.”
Harry’s eyes flicked down to where his baggy shirt had fallen, exposing his shoulder and part of his upper back.
Behind him, Dudley was standing stock still, a bit of blood staining the top of his nightshirt.
“Oh great,” Harry muttered. Aunt Petunia would screech at him for ruining a perfectly good shirt before forcing him to get all of the blood out of it.
Belatedly, Harry noticed how sticky his own shirt felt against his back and the feeling of warm blood crawling down over the wounds.
Harry waited for Dudley to do something. Yell or hit or cry for his mother because Harry had gotten his disgusting magic blood on him and probably gave him whatever dirty diseases his kind had.
But none came. Just silence.
Dudley just stared, eyes rapidly flicking between Harry’s face and back with that same strange look on his face.
Then Uncle Vernon was getting up and Dudley was running up the stairs as quickly as he could and Harry was left standing there like an idiot.
Aunt Petunia called for Uncle Vernon just before he left the kitchen and Harry rushed up before he could be seen slacking.
The garden was Harry’s favorite chore, if only because he got to be outside.
It translated to herbology as well, which Harry was grateful for. This summer he’d taken to reciting everything he could remember as he worked on the plants, imagining that he was giggling with Ron in the greenhouse as they threw dirt at Malfoy’s back and Hermione was glaring playfully at them whilst vigorously taking notes.
Every so often he would glance up to where Uncle Vernon was chuckling as he drilled in the bars on Harry’s window. When their eyes caught for a moment Uncle Vernon smirked and waved the drill mockingly.
Honestly, Harry couldn’t care less for him. He just worried about Hedwig, being locked in that room with no way out.
While he was distracted, Harry hardly heard Aunt Petunia come out of the house until she was too close.
“What are you doing?” she hissed sharply under her breath. Harry’s head snapped up to see Aunt Petunia’s head snapping around to make sure no one was listening before leaning down. “Just dawdling about, are you?”
Harry bit the inside of his cheek to keep from being smart and shook his head. “No, Aunt Petunia, I-”
Before Harry could even give a reason, Aunt Petunia’s hand was out like a shot, on his shoulder and squeezing.
Harry’s breath caught, his lungs constricted as his aunt’s hand tightened.
“Aunt-”
Harry gasped as her bony thumb dug into his shoulder blade, directly on a thick lash that curled around nearly to his collarbone.
“Don’t you dare talk back,” Aunt Petunia snapped lowly in his ear. “Insolent brat.”
Harry could hear Uncle Vernon’s snorting laugh high above him.
“This garden had better be immaculate by the time the sun goes down. Am I understood?”
Aunt Petunia’s nail ground in and Harry could smell the blood running hotly down his skin. He bit his lip sharply and his aunt’s thumb dug ever further into his back.
“ Well ?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good.”
Harry worked until his nails chipped and his fingers throbbed.
Dinner was no better.
He’d gotten something else wrong, of course. (It really wasn’t Harry’s fault, Aunt Petunia had heard Uncle Vernon wrong and told Harry to make a roast when her husband had asked for a steak. But again, it was Harry who was punished.)
Now released from the kitchen - without dinner, of course - Harry was in the upstairs bathroom inspecting the new wound that had layered itself on the barely scabbing over lashes. Shards of glass were sticking out where Aunt Petunia had smashed it into Harry’s shoulder, ruining yet another shirt that he’d have to scrub clear of blood.
Hot anger flashed through Harry’s chest as he forced himself to carefully extract the glass, blood rushing up to his dark cheeks and turning them a deeper shade. It burned in his ribcage, bubbling up to his throat until it ached with the need to just scream.
It had always been like this. Life was as it always had been, at least as much as Harry could remember it being. It was always manic screaming and spit in his face and groveling on Aunt Petunia’s immaculate tile for a moment of reprieve from his own personal hell.
But it felt different, after Hogwarts.
It felt different after knowing about Hermione’s cautiously fluttering hands and Ron’s bright grins. After nights spent by the fire in the Gryffindor common room in a pile of pillows and blankets with contraband sweets from the little house elves that Hermione had taken a liking to and after too tight hugs that caught his breath in a good way. After knowing what it felt like to be loved.
I don’t deserve this.
The thought bubbled up, unbidden in Harry’s mind until it was already fully formed. Tears had welled up in Harry’s eyes as the sound of glass plinking against the porcelain sink echoed. Harry took a moment, bloody hand smearing the perfect white of the counter, and thought back to his friends.
They hadn’t written - not once. And it hurt more than Harry was willing to admit. Worse than Uncle Vernon’s biting leather or Aunt Petunia’s sharp rings cutting his cheeks. It hurt in a different way. Deeper and scorching and it made Harry want nothing more than to curl into a ball and cry.
Maybe he didn’t deserve Ron and Hermione. (He probably didn’t.) But he’d seen what his life could be, and Harry knew - he didn’t deserve this .
But he just wanted it to end.
Harry reached back, managing to grasp a rather sizable shard and pull it free with a wince. It dropped beside his hand just before Harry let himself slump forward. He took a moment before tentatively rolling his shoulders to feel for any more glass. When nothing twinged, he reached his hand up to feel around, just to make sure.
When he glanced up, Harry winced at the blinding white of the lights above the mirror. They were far from the soft yellows that lit up the Dursley’s family room, the bulbs highlighting every little detail and flaw in Harry’s skin.
His face had returned to its usual gaunt look it had before Hogwarts, cheekbones sharp and eyes bruised and sunken in. His skin dry and dehydrated with little bumps beneath his wild fringe and along his temples. Through it all, the wild lightning scar he’d had since that fateful Halloween night slashed down his head, threatening to split through his eyebrow.
God, he was tired.
Reluctantly, Harry reached out to gather the glass shards and throw them into the bin beside the sink. He didn’t even wince as they nicked at his calloused palms, too little of a pain to even register on him.
When he reached for the final piece, the one that landed next to his hand, Harry paused. He contemplated the throbbing in his back and chest. The hurts that were brought on by so many people. Like they’d claimed him - The Monster . The Boy Who Lived .
The Freak .
He hadn’t done it for a while. The scars on his wrists and thighs had faded significantly and were fairly difficult to spot. Harry had actually been proud when he could no longer see the redness of them stick out as much as they once had.
But everything was spiraling. Harry felt caught in a shallow riptide, the pebbles scraping his skin raw and the water flooding his lungs in rapid bursts.
Harry just wanted quiet .
Harry just wanted to feel like he was his . Like this body, battered and bruised and scarred beyond recognition, actually belonged to him.
Decision made, Harry reached into the cabinet beneath the sink. He scrubbed until his nose hairs burned and the whole bathroom stunk of the harsh biting scent of bleach. The sink and counter were their regular immaculate shade of white, without a single trace of anyone having ever been there.
Harry left with the shard.
Sitting on his cot, Harry stared at the bloody glass in his hand.
It had already hurt him once. From the hand of his Aunt, it had dug deeply into his scrawny shoulder.
In a way, this tiny fragment of a water glass had put a claim on him. It marked him, just as so many had done so before. It had taken just a bit more away from Harry, tipping over an empty cup in the hope that something would give.
If Harry tilted it just right, he could see his reflecting in the pale moonlight. His eyes, the eyes so many had called Lily Potter’s, were broken and haunted. The vivid green hue they’d developed during Harry’s stint at Hogwarts had faded once again into a pale mockery of what they were meant to be.
There was a little spot in the corner of his left eye. A darker spot of green that was more hazel than anything.
Harry had stared at the photos he had of his parents. He’d studied their eyes. Harry liked to think that that little spot of hazel was part of his father peeking through. Reminding him that he was there too.
He wondered what James Potter would think if he saw the pathetic husk of a person his child had become.
When Harry finally brought the sharp edge to his wrist, all those worries faded as the blood that dripped from his wrists fell to the ground and splashed against the dirty white of his socks.
When Harry was little, he used to pretend that his parents were coming to get him.
He’d sit in the cupboard and stare up at the pictures of the stars he’d taped on the ceiling. He never knew their names, or what they looked like, but for some reason he always thought they were both white.
(To be honest, Harry didn’t have a concept of race until he was much older. He was the only brown kid in class for several years, and for the longest time, Harry thought that he was darker than the other children because he spent a lot of time in the sun. When a Korean boy had transferred into a class a few years ahead of him, Harry’d told him that, and the boy laughed and laughed and laughed.)
They’d show up one day and demand to see him. Harry would run out of his cupboard, and his mother would cry and his father would clap him on the shoulder before telling him that they were finally going home.
Now, waking up with sunlight streaming through his barred window, Harry drifted back to those old dreams to find some kind of comfort.
His left wrist throbbed beneath the rags he’d tied around it. His blood stained the floor, but Harry couldn’t bring himself to worry about that.
There was a bit more food left for Hedwig, and he set it out and refilled her water.
He ran a hand over Hedwig’s feathers and contemplated writing to his friends. He could probably sneak Hedwig out if he really wanted, even if he faced punishment for it. Harry really wanted to hear from them.
Ultimately, Harry tossed the idea. If they hadn’t written first, they probably didn’t want to hear from him at all. Harry thought it best not to force himself on others when they didn’t ask for it, especially since he didn’t expect to ever see them again.
Breakfast is, thankfully, a quiet affair. Harry gets there on time and begins the usual, hoping that Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon won’t kick up a fuss about it.
Uncle Vernon ignores him completely. He couldn’t care less, Harry knew, and he was happy to have Vernon as uninterested in him as possible.
Aunt Petunia throws him a strange look. It was vaguely familiar, and Harry could swear that he’d seen it once or twice. Her eyes lingered on the bloodstained shirt that he still hadn’t had a chance to wash and twisted up a bit before sliding back down to her plate to pick at her breakfast primly.
Dudley was even weirder. He didn’t even go for seconds, and his eyes followed Harry all around the room. It was unsettling to say the least. But Harry wasn’t planning on drawing attention to it, let alone complain.
“I’m going to my friend’s house,” Dudley announced abruptly. He jumped from the table, his wide body knocking into the table in the process.
“Oh,” Aunt Petunia gasped, moving to stand. “I can-”
“No, it’s fine.” Dudley was already halfway to the door and refused to look back to his mum’s screwed up face. “See you later.”
“Bye Dudders!” Aunt Petunia shouted out, but the door was already slamming shut behind him.
Uncle Vernon raised an eyebrow, scraping the rest of his eggs together and guffawing sharply. “Leave the boy be, Petunia. He’s growing up, doesn’t want his mother hanging about him and his friends.”
Aunt Petunia sniffed and sat back down, smoothing out her skirt and touching her hair gently to make sure it was still in place. “He doesn’t need to do so so quickly .”
Uncle Vernon snorted again and shook his head. “I’d best be off as well. Work to do, papers to file. You know.”
“Yes dear.”
Harry looked away as they kissed on the cheeks briefly before Uncle Vernon was off. He snapped something that Harry didn’t bother to catch and then the door was shutting behind him as well.
Harry shouldn’t have taken the food.
Only, he hadn’t eaten in going on two days and he’d been worked to the bone. Everything had begun to spin and he felt more and more sore, so Harry thought that he’d be able to sneak some of the food that was about to expire.
He should be grateful that it was Aunt Petunia was the one who caught him. Uncle Vernon surely would’ve been worse about it, yanking him about by the hair and beating him black and blue.
Harry touched his cheek where there was a tiny cut from Aunt Petunia’s wedding ring within the bruise. She’d merely backhanded him before shoving Harry into the cupboard.
(Not for the first time, Harry wondered if his magic had anything to do with his healing factor. When he was little, he’d thought it was normal, but then when he’d seen Ron get into fights with other kids the bruises would last for days longer than they ever would have on Harry.)
There was light still flickering from under the door and the slits on the top of it. Harry lay back on the old moth-ridden bedding, letting it press into his back. It still hurt, but the scabs were already falling off, and Harry took advantage of the distraction to focus on the pain rather than the suffocating walls.
Had it always been this tiny?
Small spaces were the bane of Harry’s existence.
He could remember, once when he was still in the muggle primary school, his class went on a field trip to an amusement park. Harry slipped Aunt Petunia the permission slip with Dudley’s and she’d signed it without realizing what she was doing. (The punishment he’d gotten had been worth it.)
Harry remembered the rollercoaster he’d barely been tall enough for. The tightness in his chest as the cart made its way up to the first fall. How his heart was pounding, but it felt like he was somehow both underwater and at the tallest peak of a mountain. The pause just before the drop.
Except now, it felt like Harry was stuck on that apex. Like the coaster had broken, and the wind was burning his lungs and there was no chance of him coming down.
Harry felt like that a lot.
But at the moment, all Harry could do was stare up at the ceiling where construction paper stars hung low like omnipresent gods.
Harry wanted to hurt them.
For as long as he could remember, Harry was content with watching the violence from afar. Letting Ron and Hermione get their hands dirty as they played games on the grimy lavatory floor.
He’d liked it. He’d liked watching and biting his lip and laughing as Ron pulled on their ears until they ripped off or, on one memorable occasion, beat one with a stick over and over until it stopped moving.
Harry imagined what it would be like to see Aunt Petunia squirm. To hear Uncle Vernon scream and scream - and not in the kind of way he liked to.
He wanted them to beg him for mercy, like he’d begged them. He wanted them to feel his pain, if only for a moment.
He wanted
He wanted
He wanted
He wanted
He wanted them to hurt .
When he’d cut the stars, Harry had been going through a phase where he was obsessed with the sky.
Harry smirked ruefully at the star with ‘Draco’ written on it in his scratchy penmanship. He didn’t have enough paper to actually map out constellations, so he’d labelled them instead.
Leo
Columba
Sirius
Cassiopeia
Perseus
Vega
Hydrus
Sometimes, Harry used to think that the moon and stars were looking down on him. Protecting him somehow. Maybe his parents were stars. Maybe they were angels.
“Stupid.”
The sounds of Hogwarts’ Great Hall were echoing in Harry’s head when the lock finally opened.
It was dark out and Aunt Petunia was already dressed for bed.
“You still haven’t finished your chores,” she snapped, grasping the collar of Harry’s shirt and pulling him into the hallway roughly. “And if you wake us up you’ll regret it.”
Aunt Petunia turned and made her way up the stairs without glancing back at Harry.
Harry let himself drift off in his mind as he proceeded to clean the kitchen. He always started there. He then moved to the dining room, the living room, and the halls before cleaning his way up the stairs. He’d finish at his bedroom where he could clean Hedwig’s cage and maybe get a bit of sleep in before he had to make breakfast.
He could barely see in front of him, but Harry refused to risk Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon see even a hint of light under their door. His heart was still pounding from the stint he’d just had in the cupboard and Harry didn’t want to even entertain the idea of being locked in again.
As he was wiping down the counter, Harry’s hand knocked into something hard. He swore under his breath and halted everything.
Harry gave it a few moments, but when the house was absent of his Uncle’s shouting, he let out a breath in relief.
He felt around to figure out what he’d hit. Harry’s hands brushed the smooth hilts of the good knives Uncle Vernon had bought recently.
And for a moment, Harry thought about it.
It’d be easier than the glass shard. Wouldn’t make his cuts as jagged, like they were the night before.
Harry could imagine it. How easy it would be.
All he’d have to do was press in a little deeper. Make the lines longer, tracing the veins that were so prominent on his emaciated body. So easy to find. Easy to dig into, like the rats.
Ron used to stab them. Hard and sharp and blood would explode as their tiny bodies collapsed in on themselves.
They popped. Like balloons.
Would Harry’s body do the same?
He thought about it. Really thought about it. Harry could remember cutting when he was little, how one night he sliced the other way because he learned that that’s how people died.
Harry passed out, blood spilling from his wrists and soaking into his tiny mattress.
He’d woken up hours later - the cuts were completely closed beneath the cakey layer of blood.
Harry didn’t understand until he’d learned about accidental magic. How it would activate to save the child’s life. Like when it put him on top of the school to get away from Dudley, or how Neville Longbottom said he bounced when his uncle threw him out the window.
Would it do that again?
Harry didn’t want to die, necessarily. At least, he didn’t think he did.
But Harry was tired. He was so bloody tired of people, of trying, of living .
If he were dead, everything would finally be quiet.
If he were dead, there would be no more beatings or loneliness or the green-tinted nightmares of his mother’s screams.
No more pain.
No more aches.
No more longing.
Just… nothing.
But if Harry were dead, who would take care of Hedwig?
Maybe he’d stick around a little longer.
Just to make sure she’d be okay.
On Harry’s twelfth birthday - a week after the Cupboard Stint™ - there was a faint rumbling outside of Harry’s window.
He thought that his heart was going to rise up his throat and fall out of his mouth.
“Hiya Harry.”
The next ten minutes or agonizingly slow and all too quick. He told the twins that his school things were in the shed and they’d best avoid the squeaky stair. They parked the car on the street and headed out, and Ron made his way through the backdoor and up the stairs. Harry heard the locks on his door being picked, and when they were all finally open, the door cracked open to reveal a freckly redheaded boy grinning like a damned loon who won the lottery.
Without a word, Harry let himself fall into Ron’s arms and burrow into his chest for a few moments.
“I thought I’d never see you again.”
Harry felt Ron’s chest heave and heard him scoff sharply. “I wrote you nearly every day, mate. Nothing . Hermione’s been driving me wild, I tell you.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh .”
“Well, I didn’t get them.”
“I got that.”
Ron helped Harry pack up Hedwig’s stuff, who was hooting and going wild by everything going on. Harry shushed her desperately before following Ron to the stairs.
“No, wait!”
Ron didn’t hear in time.
The stair beneath him groaned lowly, echoing through the silence of the house.
Like it was a film, Ron’s head slowly turned to stare at Harry with wide eyes and gaping mouth.
“Fucking hell, Ronald.”
“ POTTER !”
Foregoing any pretense of stealth, Ron and Harry booked it down the rest of the way. Ron flung open the front door and they raced down the steps towards the car where one of the twins was behind the wheel.
“ Where’s George ?!” Ron hissed as he pushed Hedwig’s cage into the backseat and slid next to it.
“ I am George !”
Harry snapped around, seeing a glimpse of his uncle behind the cracked door. In the same instant there was a flash of red as Fred Weasley ran along the side of his house with Harry’s trunk.
Without thinking, Harry rushed forward to help. He took the other end of the trunk and helped Fred run the rest of the way to the boot to throw it in.
“ Boy !” Uncle Vernon snapped as he waddled down the steps in his sleep robes. “Get back here this instant !”
“Go!”
Harry slammed the boot shut and shoved Fred toward the front opposite the house. George revved the engine and Harry threw himself into the back just as Vernon reached the car.
“ Drive drive drive !”
George didn’t even wait for Harry to close the door before he was peeling away from Number 4 Privet Drive like a man possessed, leaving Vernon to lose his balance on the curb and stumble into the street. Harry snorted as his uncle raged in the road, unable to scream like he wanted since he was out in public in the middle of the night.
Harry quickly reached out to shut the door, finally letting out a sharp breath he’d been holding on a laugh.
“That was bloody brilliant.”
Ron barked out a sharp laugh, quickly followed by the twins’ synchronized laughter echoing through the Ford Anglia.
Harry grinned breathlessly, letting Ron pull him closer to lean into him. Harry winced slightly as the seat unexpectedly pressed into his back. He was quick to hide it, preferring to scoot down the seat to lay with his head on Ron’s leg, letting his hand run through Harry’s unruly dark locks.
“Happy birthday, Harry.”
“Best one yet.”
The Burrow was so warm and welcoming that it gave Harry emotional whiplash.
Mrs. Weasley had seemed rightly furious, but had soon let it go when she realized they were all alright. Harry had curled into himself, hiding behind Ron without thinking.
He’d never done well with adults. Especially when they were yelling. Ron seemed to take notice and didn’t mention the hand that gripped onto the hem on his shirt.
And the food .
Harry remembered that first day at Hogwarts, how he’d gotten sick from all the food. He took it easy this time, partly because of that, but also because he didn’t want to take what wasn’t his.
Mrs. Weasley was so nice . He couldn’t take advantage of her and her family like that.
Harry tried to help after breakfast. He automatically assisted Mrs. Weasley in clearing the table (“For goodness sake , Harry. Just call me Molly.” “I think I’m physically unable to do that, ma’am.”) but she’d shooed him away much too quickly.
“You look unbelievably tired, dear,” Mrs. Weasley had said gently. Her hand ran through his hair like Ron’s did and Harry melted beneath it. “Follow Ron up to his room. You two should sleep a bit before doing anything else.”
Harry waved towards Hedwig, now flying away from where she’d perched and flying off to stretch her wings. Ron took Harry’s elbow gently, despite Harry’s protests, and led him up the many stairs to his room. He slid his hand down Harry’s arm until they were holding hands.
It felt natural to Harry. Like when Hermione would kiss his cheek or they would get into group wrestling matches. It was nice.
Familial , said a quiet voice in Harry’s head.
If only they were his family.
Even though Mrs. Weasley told them to sleep, the two boys were too wired to do such a thing. After the grand tour of his bedroom Ron pulled out a chess board and they began to play.
During the duration of the game, Harry went on about Dobby. How he’d shown up and insisted that he couldn’t go to school before getting him in trouble.
That was the abridged version of his story. But Ron didn’t need to know everything.
“Was Hermione actually worried?”
“We all were. I was losing my mind, you know. Would’ve checked in earlier but my parents insisted that I was just being dramatic.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
Ron groaned and shook his head. “Knight to F5. Harry, don’t bloody apologize. It wasn’t your fault.”
“Sorry.”
Harry winced as soon as it was out. Ron snorted a laugh and Harry had to catch himself from apologizing for apologizing for apologizing.
After the game, Ron pushed the board away under his bed.
Ron bounced a few times on the bed before jumping onto the floor. Harry heard frantic squeaking and the rattling of a cage as Ron moved towards his radio.
Harry searched the room for a few seconds before landing on Ron’s pet rat, pressed into the corner of its cage and trembling violently.
“What’s up with Scabbers?”
Harry tried to move closer, but the rat’s cries only increased.
“I dunno.” Ron shrugged and began to try to find a station he liked. “He’s been like that recently.”
Scabbers’s tail was off, Harry noticed. There was a sharp bend in its center, putting it all off. “Is his tail broken?”
“Mm.”
“Why is his tail broken?”
“Because I broke it.”
“Oh.” Harry tapped the cage a few times and Scabbers quickly paced along the back of the cage. “Why?”
“He was clawing and squeaking all day and night. I got angry.”
Made sense to Harry. “Did you do anything else to him?”
“Sometimes I squeeze him really tightly. Until he passes out. Or once, Hermione sent me a healing potion so that I could fix him up and no one would know. I broke all of his toes, and some other bones too.”
“Sick.”
Ron finally tuned his radio to some station playing a gentler rock song. Something about a dragon’s fire or the like.
“He’s a weird one.”
“You’re telling me.” Ron stood up straighter and moved back towards the bed. He reclined back with his arms behind his head and glanced towards where Harry was staring closely at Scabbers. “If you want to try, you can.”
“Try what?”
“Hurting him.”
Scabbers squealed again and clawed desperately at the bars of his cage. Like he was trying to escape.
Harry knew the feeling. He was glad something else understood.
“I’ve never…”
“Think of it as practice.” Harry looked back as Ron shrugged and flicked through the quidditch magazine on his bedside table. He was completely at ease here. Harry liked the look on him. “It’s fun. But you don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
Harry hummed, biting the inside of his cheek in thought. “Later, I think.”
As he moved to stand the scabs on Harry’s back pulled sharply after being folded for so long. He winced sharply but quickly stamped it out.
Not quickly enough, though.
Ron frowned and sat up a bit. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
Harry refused to look back up as Ron swung his legs over the bed. “It’s something . You were flinchey in the car, too. It’s your back, right?”
“Leave off it, Ron.”
“No.” Ron stood up and moved closer. “Show me.”
Harry flitted away, moving towards the middle of the room to avoid Ron’s sharp gaze. “Fuck. Off.”
For a moment there, Harry actually believed that his best friend would respect his wishes.
Ron put his hands up, backing towards the bed. “Alright. Just… come on. You really need to sleep.”
Harry waited a few seconds longer before joining Ron on the bed.
But before Harry could even move to lay down Ron’s hands were on his shirt and he was ripping it upwards to show Harry’s scarred up back.
“Merlin’s tit .”
“ What the hell ?!”
Harry ripped himself away from Ron, trying to protect his modesty, but the damage was done.
Ron had seen.
“Harry! What happened? Are you okay?!”
“I’m fine! God,” Harry began to laugh nervously, hands shaking as he yanked his cuffs down desperately. “I’m fine! Just ignore it.”
“ Ignore it ?!” Ron roared angrily. Harry narrowed his eyes as Ron jumped up in righteous fury. “Screw you, Harry! I’ve spent the entire summer worried sick about you, and when I find you, you’re locked behind bars like a prisoner and it looks like you’ve been whipped within an inch of your life! Fuck you I’m not ignoring it!”
Harry’s body had begun to shake at some point and he’d curled in on himself to avoid Ron’s flashing eyes.
They were mad .
They were mad at him .
Almost as quickly as it had come, Ron’s anger drained as he moved closer. “I’m not angry with you, Harry. I’m angry with the situation.” Ron moved to sit next to Harry, hands gentle on his shoulders and on the back of his neck. “Just tell me what happened. Please.”
Just like that, Harry felt his carefully constructed dam crumble in on itself and collapse.
Everything came out. From the cupboard to the broken glass to the belt whippings, everything that had ever happened to Harry spilled out in a torrential storm of word vomit. And once he’d started, Harry felt it impossible to stop. Not until his voice was hoarse and his ribs were rattling to the point where it felt like he was going to vibrate out of his skin.
But Harry had been able to hold in the tears for the whole time. Dissociating himself from the events that happened to him. Even though his voice had wavered once or twice, Harry thought himself successful in holding back all of the conflicted emotions that were threatening to break through.
“Oh, Harry .”
Until that.
Somehow, the combination of Ron’s gentle hands on Harry’s skin and the gentle brokenness of his voice did Harry in.
Within moments, Harry was sobbing in Ron’s arms like he never had before. He’d never had someone hold him like this, never had someone coo comfortingly and run their hands through his hair and encourage him to let it all out, so the strange combination of events had him crying harder with every gasping breath.
The songs had changed eight times before Harry finally calmed enough to form coherent thoughts. When he did, he could make out Ron’s gentle crooning alongside that of the radio.
“Do you cut yourself a lot?”
Harry hadn’t even noticed his sleeves ride up.
“Um, kind of. I didn’t really at school, but, yeah. Sometimes.”
“Why?”
“I need…” Harry had never had to explain it to someone, so it was fairly difficult. “I dunno. It calms me down.”
Ron sniffed and shook his head. “I need more than that, mate.”
“If anyone’s gonna hurt me, it’s going to be me. I won’t be anyone’s bitch.”
Ron sniffed again, and Harry looked up to see why. He was quite surprised that at some point Ron had begun to cry as well.
“We have to tell my parents.”
Just pour some ice down my pants instead, wouldn’t you Ron?!
“What.”
“Harry, this is bad. Really, really bad. It’s not right, and they’re gonna keep sending you back if we don’t tell.”
Harry sputtered, shaking his head sharply as he stared up at Ron. “I can’t!”
“Harry.”
Ron looked like he’d rather be in any other position that the one he was in. Harry bit his lip and his eyes flickered back and forth before settling.
His whole body language changed. Ron furrowed his eyebrows as he watched Harry completely change before him.
(Harry had done that before. Taken a moment before his face changed and he took control of the situation. Harry knew that the Hat wanted him in Slytherin. This was probably one of the reasons why.)
“C’mon Ron.” Harry’s mouth quirked and every bit of charm he had rose to the surface. Ron was a bit starstruck. “They pretty much know already. Dumbledore definitely does.”
The lines in Ron’s forehead deepened. “What do you mean?”
“The letter?” Harry chuckled and shook his head. “‘Mr. H. Potter, The Cupboard Under the Stairs’. Not to mention that I’ve told Dumbledore I didn’t like it there, that my relatives were mean. He sent me back anyway.”
(“Sometimes, Harry, we must do what is right. Not what is easy.”)
That seemed like the wrong thing to say, if Ron’s flushed face and clenching jaw was any indication.
“Mum will take you in. She will, I know it. We just-”
“No,” Harry snapped.
Whoops, charm’s gone.
“I’ll deny it. Everything.”
Ron sighed and ran a hand over his face. “The scars, Harry.”
“I’ll lie.” Harry nodded like this would solve everything. “I’ll lie about how I got them, and Dumbledore will send me back.”
“Why are you so determined to go back?!”
“Because I won’t be a burden, Ron! I won’t…” Harry flopped back onto the bed and groaned angrily. “I can’t shove myself onto anyone else - I won’t. Besides, this is my life. I’m used to it.”
For perhaps the first time Harry had known Ron, he was completely and utterly speechless.
Harry sighed.
It was quiet for a bit, the only things Harry could hear was the radio’s commercials and Ron’s heavy breathing.
A minute or so in Harry finally caved. He reached out a hand, wrapping it around Ron’s wrist and tugging him down. “It’s okay, Ron. Really. Thank you for caring.”
“You don’t need to thank me for that.”
Ron curled up closer and threaded a hand through his hair. Harry hummed contentedly and leaned into it, making Ron laugh quietly.
“I think I have some of that healing potion left. I only used a little bit of it.”
Harry whined as Ron clambered up, leaving him alone on the covers. Ron flicked his knee and moved towards Scabbers’s cage.
Scabbers squealed and Ron smacked the cage.
“You’ll rub my hair again, right?”
Ron let out another laugh and handed Harry the rest of the potion from where it had been in his drawer.
Harry took a long pull before swallowing, grimacing at the taste and making a face. “Nasty.”
Ron helped Harry lay down before curling up next to him.
The potion soon began to take effect and Harry’s eyelids drooped tiredly. Ron reached forward and slid Harry’s glasses off of his face. He set them on the bedside table before settling down on top of the covers.
"Don't think we won't talk about the cutting later."
“Hair,” Harry mumbled quietly into Ron’s shoulder, not having the energy to put up a fuss.
That morning, Harry fell asleep safe with his best friend’s hand gently carding through his hair and the sound of a Weird Sisters piano ballad crooning through the crackling radio station.